The Gift: A Variations Sequel
by HDKingsbury
Summary: With Christine pregnant with their first child, Erik must confront his own past as he sets out to learn the truth about his parents, and about himself. A short sequel to "Variations on a Theme of Leroux", a story about the power of love and forgiveness.
1. A Visit to the Doctor and a Book

In _Variations on a Theme of Leroux_, we were introduced to Erik duBois, the reclusive man once known as The Phantom in the Opera, and the woman who became his salvation, Christine Daaé. At the end of Variations, they were married, but that is not the end of their story. In _The Gift_, H. D. Kingsbury and MadLizzy join forces to bring us the rest of the story. Christine is pregnant with their first child, while a strange dream forces Erik to confront his own past and to learn the truth about who he is, and why he bears a scarred face.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

**The Gift: A Variations Sequel  
By HDKingsbury and MadLizzy  
Copyright **©** 2006**

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system – available today or in the future -- without permission in writing from the author.

* * *

**Chapter 1  
A Visit to the Doctor...and a Book**

_Perros – July 1881_

"Dr. Bret? M. duBois is here to see you."

Visant Bret sat in his office, enjoying a respite from making calls upon injured fishermen, colicky infants, and grandmothers with rheumatism by doing what he loved most – reading the most recent issue of one of the numerous medical journals to which he subscribed. He looked up when his maid, Aimee, interrupted his reading. "Show him in," he said pleasantly to the young girl.

Aimee curtsied and, moments later, showed Erik duBois into the consulting room.

Bret rose to his feet, his arthritic knees creaking slightly. At 55 years of age, he still liked to think of himself as young, but his knees reminded him otherwise. He walked over to greet his neighbor. In spite of general acceptance by the community, Erik continued to wear a half-mask that covered the right side of his face. It was pleasantly warm for July, and the doctor noticed that the facial covering was made of a lightweight fabric, which was undoubtedly much more comfortable than the flesh-colored leather ones worn when the weather was cooler.

The two men shook hands amiably and Bret invited Erik to have a seat. "I received your message earlier," he said. "I trust that all is well. This call wouldn't happen to have anything to do with Mme duBois, would it?"

Erik, whose expression was typically somber, brightened significantly at the mention of his lovely young wife. "No," he answered, "she's in excellent spirits, and the two of us are looking forward to February, when our baby will be born." Having said that, Erik hesitated, not sure how to proceed.

After years of medical practice, Dr. Bret recognized when a patient was ill at ease, even one adept at trying to disguise the fact. Experience had taught him the perfect way to get an uneasy patient, or patient's husband, to relax. "Would you like something to drink? Some tea, perhaps? Or something stronger?"

"Tea would be fine, thank you."

The doctor rang for the maid, and a few minutes later Aimee returned with the tea service. After pouring their beverages, she excused herself and exited the room. Making use of a time-proven technique, Bret engaged Erik in general conversation before inquiring further into the real reason for the visit.

"I understand you're turning to architecture," the doctor said. The engaging smile that emerged on Erik's face told Bret he'd found the perfect topic.

"Yes. I've converted one of the guest rooms on the second floor of Mamma's house into of office. In fact, Christine is there right now, sorting through the crates of books that arrived from Paris last week. I'm hoping to set up a small architectural practice."

Bret nodded, agreeing that Perros and its environs was very popular with the Parisian crowd in the summer. With many of the wealthier folks seeking a summer cottage along the beauty of the pink granite coast, a good architect could make a handsome living here.

"There are also lighthouses to be built or replaced," Erik added, "as well as bridges, railroads, and the like. So far, I've only been working on small, local projects. I am hoping that will change in the future, but for now these ventures keep me busy and allow me to become better acquainted with my neighbors."

"Does this mean that you and your wife have given up on moving to New York City?"

Erik took another sip of his tea. "For now. Christine and I are quite comfortable in Perros, and Mme. Valérius tells us that we can stay with her for as long as we wish."

"You are fortunate to have such a good relationship with your mother-in-law. Not all men can say that."

"She is a very rare woman," Erik agreed, finding himself in an unusually chatty mood, "and I have had no family for so long that having her as my mother-in-law is a welcome change in my life. As for Christine, I was concerned that she would be upset at giving up her singing career, but she insists that as long as she is able to sing in the church choir, she's happy. She also knows that as long as she sings in the choir, I will be attending services – if only to listen to her."

Visant Bret chuckled. "At least she's found a way to get you to go to church. Very clever of her. However, I understand that you, too, have a musical background. Your wife tells me that you play several instruments, and that at one time, you were her voice teacher."

By now, Erik had relaxed considerably. He flashed a self-deprecating smile when he said, "I'm surprised she left out 'dabbles at composing' when she was listing my talents."

"She will probably mention that during her next visit. She never tires of singing your praises. But now that you have me thinking on the matter, I'm wondering. With such skills, have you considered volunteering your services? You might want to consider being the organist, or perhaps the choirmaster."

Erik grimaced slightly. "I have no wish to displace the current occupants of those positions and create ill-will. If, however, one of the positions becomes open, I could be persuaded to reconsider."

"You might let it be known that you would be willing to help now and then, perhaps as a substitute organist when one is needed." Dr. Bret set down his teacup. "Now then, I know you didn't come here to idle away the afternoon. How may I help you?"

The smile that had been on Erik's face was now replaced by a more solemn expression. "I would like for you to examine me," he said.

Bret frowned. "Are you unwell?"

"No, I'm perfectly healthy. It's just…," Erik paused as he considered how to word his request. "I need to know if I should be concerned about this being passed on to my children." Very carefully, he removed the mask and hairpiece.

Bret appreciated how difficult it was for Erik duBois to expose his damaged face to anyone, regardless of whether that person was the family's physician. It had been the night of the fire when he had first seen the man's face, and at that time had thought he had been injured in the inferno. Since then, however, Erik had made certain that he covered his face whenever he was out in public. Now that they were in the doctor's consulting room, Bret got a closer look at the disfigurement and was sorry to see that whatever its cause, it was much worse than he originally thought.

"Please, have a seat over here," the doctor said, inviting Erik to take a chair where the light was better. He began his examination, pulling a pair of pince-nez from his breast pocket and resting them on the bridge of his nose. "The better to see you with," Bret said with a genial laugh.

Erik only nodded.

"The defect is quite severe," Bret commented as he intently studied the damaged tissue. "Does it cause discomfort? Is there pain?"

Erik remained perfectly still during the examination, unconsciously tensing up. "Sometimes there is a sensation of tightness, as if the skin is being pulled taut," he said. "I am also prone to headaches, but I don't know if they are in any way related to my face."

Bret nodded thoughtfully. He looked down at the mask Erik was gripping tightly in his hands. "May I?" he asked politely. The doctor inspected its construction, noticing that it was made of a light colored felt formed to fit its wearer's face, and was lined with very soft, unbleached fabric for additional comfort. "Do you wear this all the time?" he asked.

"I used to, but not anymore. These days, I only wear it when I go out in public."

"I see," the doctor said quietly, understanding that even in these enlightened times there were many people who had difficulty accepting those with deformities and abnormalities. He returned the articles to Erik.

"So, tell me, doctor. Can I pass this…defect on to my children?"

Bret took a seat next to Erik. He removed his glasses and slipped them back into his breast pocket. "Were you injured as a child?"

The question surprised Erik. "An injury? You mean . . . my face?"

"Yes."

"I…I was always led to believe that I was born with this," Erik said, shaking his head slowly.

Bret scrunched his face in puzzlement. "I don't think so," he finally said, after giving the matter careful consideration. "I suppose there's a small chance that I could be wrong, but I would stake my professional reputation on the fact that this disfigurement is the result of an injury, not a birth defect. What about your family? What do they have to say?"

"I have no brothers or sisters, and my parents died many years ago. I left home at an early age and had no further contact with them."

"If only there were someone you could ask," Bret said thoughtfully. "They might be able to put your mind at ease. In the meantime…." He rose from his chair and stepped over to one of the cabinets, bringing back with him a jar of cream. "I'd like you to try this. It's a salve I've found helpful in keeping scar tissue pliant. You may find it beneficial in easing those feelings of tightness, and perhaps it will alleviate some of the headaches as well. Use it daily, and try to keep your face uncovered as often as possible. Skin, even when it is scarred, needs to breathe."

Erik exhaled, not having realized he had been holding his breath throughout the examination. "Then, I shouldn't worry?"

Smiling kindly, the doctor replied, "In my professional opinion? No, I see no reason to worry at all. If we knew the right person to ask, I suspect we would learn that the scarring was caused by a traumatic injury when you were very young, most likely a severe burn. It is also likely that you have memories of the events, but that you have kept them at bay. Whatever the injury, it would have been extremely painful."

Erik replaced his wig and mask. Now that he had been reassured that what happened to him was not hereditary, he had other questions for the doctor. "I…there is something else I would like to discuss with you, Dr. Bret. I…I feel terribly awkward asking this, but…"

Knowing his patient was soon-to-be a first time father, Bret suspected what was causing Erik's apparent embarrassment. With a good-natured smile, he gently prodded Erik to help him find the words he was looking for. "You may feel free to ask any question. Remember, I am your doctor and your friend; anything you have to say will be kept strictly confidential."

"I…I don't want to do anything that will cause our unborn child any undue stress. What I'm trying to ask is…if physical intimacy should be halted."

"No, no need whatsoever." Dr. Bret went on to explain, "The only limitations would be your wife's interest in sexual activity, and her level of comfort. Keep in mind that Mme duBois's body will be changing and this will undoubted have some effect on how she feels. If in doubt, don't be afraid to talk to your wife. Ask her how she feels, what she wants to do, and be guided by what she has to say."

-0-0-0-

Christine sat on the floor of Erik's workroom, surrounded by opened crates and stacks of books. All the volumes that had once graced her husband's house by the lake had finally been delivered. While he called upon the doctor, she had agreed to start sorting through them, arranging them by language, and then by genre and author, getting them ready for the bookshelves Erik was installing in the room.

Picking up a particularly intriguing-looking volume, she paused to muse on why her husband had gone to see Dr. Bret. She had volunteered to accompany Erik, but understood when he politely declined her offer.

Even though her husband had said it was to get a headache powder, she suspected that he was, in fact, worried that he would pass his deformity on to their child. With nothing concrete upon which she could base her feelings, Christine had, from the time she had first realized she was pregnant, been certain that such would never happen. She only hoped that the good doctor would be able to put Erik's mind to rest on the issue.

Turning her mind back to her present task, she studied the book in her hand. It was a particularly beautiful piece of craftsmanship, its cover of tooled leather cover embossed with a foreign script picked out in gold leaf and decorated with what could only have been precious and semi-precious stones. The pages were also edged in gold. She opened the book and began to browse its contents.

"Oh my," she gasped, not realizing she had spoken aloud. Inside were colored plates depicting all manner of shocking and bizarre activities. Though she had no idea what the text said, it was all too obvious from the pictures what was going on. She was so engrossed that she did not hear Erik enter the room.

"Did you find something of interest?" he asked, standing behind her. He leaned forward, placing his hands on her shoulders, gently kneading muscles that had been hunched over, looking to see what had caught her attention. "Oh…" he whispered as she blushed, quickly closing the book and setting it aside.

"How was your visit with Dr. Bret?" she asked, trying to change the subject.

He joined her on the floor, sitting cross-legged opposite her. As usual, now that he was safely within the confines of his home, with his small family, he had removed his mask and wig. "He told me not to worry, that in his opinion, there is no chance of any child of ours being born with a face like mine."

Smiling, she reached over to take his hands into hers. Leaning forward, she greeted his announcement with a soft, gentle kiss. "We've talked about this before," she said, brushing her lips against his cheek. "You know I love this face of yours. I only wish you'd cease fretting over it." They kissed again, then settled back into comfortable talk. "Was he able to say what caused your scars?"

"Dr. Bret feels certain that they are not a birth defect, but are the result of a very old injury. The problem is, I have no memory of anything like that ever happening to me. If this was from an injury, I don't understand why my parents allowed me to believe I was born this way. What purpose did that serve?"

Christine admitted she could think of no reason, either. "I suppose we'll never know the answer to that question."

Erik felt restless. Just as Christine was making their home ready for their baby's arrival, so too did he want to prepare himself for this great change in his life. He needed to know the truth, and said as much.

"I've been forced to spend my life living a lie," he explained. "I was allowed to believe I was born ugly and misshapen. Now Dr. Bret tells me that this was not the case. If what he says is fact, then I need to know the truth about me…and my parents."

Christine thought about the matter, and then asked, "Do you know where you were born?"

"Yes, St-Martin-de-Boscherville. It's a small town about eight kilometers from Rouen," he replied, remembering fondly the spires of the Abbaye Saint-Georges-de-Boscherville, one of the few good memories from his childhood.

"Then why don't you write to the parish priest?" she suggested. "If you were born in Boscherville, I'm sure the event would have been recorded in the church records. Perhaps the priest will know about your family and will be able to shed some light on the past."

Her idea was a good one. Erik agreed to compose a letter and mail it this week. "I don't really expect an answer after all this time, but at least I will have made the attempt."

Now that he had a plan of action, he could turn his attention to other matters. He looked about at the stacks of books, wanting to speak of more pleasant topics. "At least you've managed to keep yourself busy while I was out," he said, a fleeting look of embarrassment crossing his face as he remembered the book she had been looking at. "Did you find anything you'd like to read?"

Ignoring his reference to the dubious volume, she explained how she had been sorting everything. She indicated one stack. "I was wondering what language these are written in. They look oriental."

"They're written in Parsi, the language of the Persians. They are books on a wide variety of subjects that I picked up when I was living abroad. Some are on medicine, some on architecture, some of a philosophical nature." He paused. "Are there any others you were…curious about?"

Her cheeks flushed bright red. "As a matter of fact…" she started to say, "I was wondering what language this is. This doesn't look like Parsi," she said as she handed him the book in question.

Erik could feel his own cheeks burning slightly. "You're right," he replied. "This is written in Sanskrit, the language of the Hindu."

Feeling bolder, she ventured to ask, "Is it a book on philosophy?" Having already seen many of the illustrations, she could not help but wonder what sort of philosophy the author was promoting.

"In a manner of speaking. It is a very ancient text, called _Kamasutram_, which might be translated as 'aphorisms of love'. It is said to have been compiled by a celibate scholar named Mallanaga Vātsyāyana who lived back when Europe was still in the Dark Ages. It speaks of love, of how a man and a woman can find fulfillment through their sexuality. I…I bought it during the years when I thought I would never know the love of woman. I…I was certain that this was as close to…intimacy as I would come." He added quickly, "This was long before I met you. You…you probably find that quite scandalous," he said rather sheepishly.

Christine looked at the book, then at Erik. She thought on some of her foster mother's teachings on Free Love. "Not really," she said at last. Returning her attention back to the book, she asked, "You are able to read Sanskrit?" She was certain that she would never cease to be amazed at her husband's many talents.

In spite of his embarrassment, Erik could not resist the urge to chuckle. His wife had been looking at a book filled with sexually explicit illustrations, yet what impressed her most was the fact that it was written in Sanskrit and that her husband could read that language. "Not fully," he answered, "but well enough to understand most of what is written."

She could not resist the urge to tease him. "Oh, and here I was thinking you just liked looking at the pictures." Thumbing through the book, she found a picture of a man and a woman in an erotic embrace. "Tell me, what does the learned ancient philosopher say of kissing?"

He took the book from her and, opening it to the appropriate page, began to read:

_Now in a case of a young girl there are three sorts of kisses: _

_The nominal kiss  
The throbbing kiss  
The touching kiss_

_When a girl only touches the mouth of her lover with her own, but does not herself do anything, it is called the 'nominal kiss'. _

_When a girl, setting aside her bashfulness a little, wishes to touch the lip that is pressed into her mouth, and with that object moves her lower lip, but not the upper one, it is called the 'throbbing kiss'. _

_When a girl touches her lover's lip with her tongue, and having shut her eyes, places her hands on those of her lover, it is called the 'touching kiss'._

He set the book aside.

"Only three kinds of kisses?" Christine asked, her eyes sparkling.

"In this section, the author is referring to a maiden who is new to the arts of love," Erik replied.

"Perhaps we should give it a try?"

"Yes. We'll…start with the nominal kiss," he said, his breath catching in his throat. He felt almost giddy. There was something quite charming about the prospect of making love to his wife in the middle of the day. "This is a simple touching of the lips, nothing else."

They leaned towards each other, their hands clasped in their laps. Gently, tenderly he pressed his lips to hers in a kiss that was chaste, yet exquisitely passionate. Then he reluctantly pulled away. "This...is to determine if there is mutual interest," he explained, his voice filled with desire. "If there is, we progress to the next step."

Christine's heart was beating faster, and the room suddenly felt terribly warm as she found herself responding to the innocent kiss. "And if we agree that there is mutual interest?"

"We...progress to the throbbing kiss."

Inhaling deeply, Christine released her breath slowly as she tried to calm her own throbbing heart. "I...I like the sound of that one. What do we do?"

"We…brush lips." He leaned towards her once again. Again, he pressed his lips against hers, but unlike the first kiss, he rubbed his lower lip over hers, sending shivers of pleasure through them both. She immediately reciprocated his actions, ready to engage in kisses that were deeper, more sensuous.

At last they broke. "You're a fast learner," Erik said, his body reacting in wonderful ways.

"You're not so bad yourself. What were you doing? Practicing with the other chorus girls before I came along?" She laughed as she saw the shocked looked on his face. "What is the next step? It's obvious we're both feeling mutual interest," she added, the feel of his lips against hers filling her with desire. She looked down at his lap. Her husband was definitely responding as well.

"We...now advance to the touching kiss," Erik said hoarsely. Reaching out to her, he gently put his hands on her arms and pulled her closer. As their lips met, their mouths opened and their tongues awakened, taking part in the love play. They continued – touching, caressing, their tongues exploring.

Slowly, Erik took her chin in his hands and tilted her head back slightly, so that her face was turned up to meet his. Exposing her lips and her mouth to full contact, his tongue fully explored her as their hands joined in. He could feel his body tingle as she ran her fingers through his hair, gently massaging the scarred side of his head. He gasped, never having thought a touch to his damaged skin would feel so arousing. His hands touched her neck, her shoulders, stroking her breasts.

"Are we…still practicing…the touching kiss?" she murmured between kisses.

"Mmm…I believe…we've progressed…to the bent kiss," he replied between nibbles, their kisses growing even deeper and more passionate.

"The bent kiss?" she managed to whisper.

"Yes," he said with a little groan. "When the heads of two lovers are bent towards each other, and when so bent, kissing takes place, it is called a 'bent kiss'," he murmured, quoting the ancient master. "According to the sage, a wager may now be laid as to who will get hold of the lips of the other first." They kissed again.

"What happens if the woman loses?"

"She should pretend to cry, push her lover away and dispute with him, saying that another wager should be laid."

"And if she loses a second time?" By now, she was resting her head against his shoulder, taking intense pleasure in the feel of his body pressing against hers. She began undoing the buttons of his shirt, slipping her hands beneath the fabric and feeling his flesh respond to her touch.

Erik moaned, and a rumble came from deep within his chest, but whatever he was going to say remained unspoken. A horse-drawn cart was pulling up to the house, followed by voices and the opening and closing of the front door.

"Christine? Erik? Are you home?" It was Mamma. "I'll be starting supper soon. Alan Kerjean will be joining us," she added, referring to her widowed neighbor.

Getting their bodies under control was a difficult, but they finally managed. Getting ready to go downstairs to talk to Mamma, Christine gave Erik a mischievous look, then glanced back at the book. "I think we should keep this in our room...for future reference."

"I agree."

"I'm sure there are more lessons we need to study," she added, her eyes luminous as she imagined the two of them engaged in some of the positions she had seen in the book.

"Of course...if you're feeling up to it."

"Of course," she agreed. "And perhaps later, you can teach me to read Sanskrit, although the pictures alone are rather…self explanatory."

At that point, he could think could think of nothing further to say, and instead was looking forward to the two of them exploring the carnal delights of the _Kamasutram_.

-0-0-0-

* * *

**  
Author's Notes (because I like including them):**

Boscherville is a reference to the town where Susan Kay had her Erik born. The full name of the place is St.-Martin de Boscherville. According to Kay, Erik used to run away from home when he was a child, and for hours at a time would play the organ in

-0-

Better known these days as _Kama Sutra_, the _Kamasutram_ was first translated and introduced in the West by Sir Richard Burton in 1883. This would be the explorer, not the former husband of Liz Taylor. **Sir Richard Francis Burton**, KCMG, FRGS, (March 19, 1821 – October 20, 1890) was an English explorer, translator, writer, soldier, orientalist, ethnologist, linguist, poet, hypnotist, fencer and diplomat. He was known for his travels and explorations within Asia and Africa as well as his extraordinary knowledge of languages and cultures. According to one count, he spoke twenty-nine European, Asian, and African languages. Burton had long had an interest in sexuality and erotic literature. However, the Obscene Publications Act of 1857 had resulted in many jail sentences for publishers with prosecutions being brought by the Society for the Suppression of Vice (Burton referred to the society and those who shared its views as Mrs. Grundy). A way around this was the private circulation of books amongst the members of a society. For this reason Burton, together with Forster Fitzgerald Arbuthnot created the Kama Shastra Society to print and circulate books that would be illegal to publish in public.

One of the most celebrated of all his books is his translation of the _The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night_ (more commonly known in English as _The Arabian Nights_ because of Andrew Lang's abridged collection) in ten volumes, (1885) with six further volumes being added later. The volumes were printed by the _Kama Shashtra_ Society in a subscribers-only edition of one thousand with a guarantee that there would never be a larger printing of the books in this form. The stories collected were often sexual in content and were considered pornography at the time of publication. In particular, the _Terminal Essay of the Nights_ was one of the first English language texts to dare address the practice of pederasty, which he postulated, was prevalent in an area of the southern latitudes named by him the "Sotadic zone." Rumors about Burton's own sexuality were already circulating and were further incited by this work.

Perhaps Burton's best-known book is his translation of _The Kama Sutra_. In fact, it is not really true that he was the translator since the original manuscript was in ancient Sanskrit which he could not read. However, he collaborated with Forster Fitzgerald Arbuthnot on the work and provided translations from other manuscripts of later translations. The Kama Shashtra Society first printed the book in 1883 and numerous editions of the Burton translation are in print to this day.

His English translation from a French edition of the Arabic erotic guide _The Perfumed Garden_ was printed as _The Perfumed Garden of the Cheikh Nefzaoui: A Manual of Arabian Erotology_ (1886). After Richard's death Isabel burnt many of his papers including a manuscript of a subsequent translation, _The Scented Garden_, containing the final chapter of the work, on pederasty. It is interesting to note that Burton all along intended for this translation to be published after his death, to provide a competence for his widow and also as a final gesture of defiance against Victorian society.

Source: Wikipedia.


	2. The Reply

January 4, 2007

Thank you for your patience in waiting for this next chapter. Now that the holidays are over, I hope to be writing more regularly. This chapter isn't quite as long as the first, but I think you'll like it just the same. I hope I caught all the typos and such. Oh well, if I didn't, I'm sure my faithful readers will let me know…

* * *

**Chapter 2  
The Reply**

_  
Late July 1881_

_  
To whom it may concern…_

Erik set his pen aside, looked at the paper, wadded it in a ball and tossed it over towards the wastebasket. "Damn!" he muttered when he missed the basket. Rather than pick up the paper, he instead reached for a clean sheet of paper and began to write again.

_Dear Father…Allow me to introduce myself; I am Erik duBois…_

Again dissatisfied, he crumpled the paper and likewise tossed it aside. He had made numerous unsuccessful attempts to compose a letter to the parish priest at Boscherville, but whenever he put pen to paper, nothing came out right. Sighing heavily, he shoved the writing utensils aside. Leaning back in his chair, he tried to collect his thoughts.

Downstairs he could hear the sounds of Mamma working in the kitchen, which was immediately below his workroom. Being summer, the window to his workroom was open, which allowed the aroma of the roast she had put in the oven for supper to waft its way into the room. _Maybe that is what is distracting me_, he thought, inhaling the aroma. His stomach agreed, and growled in approval of the choice for this evening's meal. He closed his eyes and rolled his neck, trying to work the kinks and stiff muscles when he heard a light rapping at the door. Turning around, he saw Christine enter the room.

"Choir practice over already?" he asked.

"Already?" She laughed. "Have you seen how late it is?"

"Oh," he replied, looking over at the mantle clock. He grinned sheepishly. "I guess I lost track of the time."

"It's of no importance," she shrugged casually as she looked around the room, noticing the remains of the numerous attempts at letter writing scattered over the floor. "Still at it?" she asked, shaking her head as she bent over and picked up the crumpled pages, tossing them into the basket. She looked over at Erik, cocking her head to one side. "Maybe we should move this closer to your desk?" she suggested.

"And here I thought you were willing to overlook my shortcomings," he replied.

An eyebrow rose as she said, "To a point."

"Here, come sit with me," he said, inviting her onto his lap. "Tell me, how was choir practice today?"

Christine snuggled against Erik as she joined him on the chair, then sighed forlornly. "I fear I am sadly out of form," she said, putting her arms around his neck as she rested her head against his shoulder. "I need my teacher's help."

Erik wrapped his arms around her waist, caressing her, and kissed the crown of her head. "Is that what the choirmaster told you?"

"No, the dear man is quite accustomed to dealing with untrained voices. In his opinion, mine is perfection itself. However, I know better. I cringed when I listened to myself sing. My high notes are harsh, and my middle range is not distinct."

Erik tsked. "I see," he said consolingly. "You are quite right, of course; this will never do. I fear we are dealing with a very serious situation, Mme duBois." He went through the motions of giving the matter careful thought. "By all means," he concluded, "we must set about correcting these problems, and soon."

"Shall we start tonight?"

"No, not tonight. We shall start tomorrow. You already had choir practice today. We don't want to strain your voice. Besides, you look a little tired."

"I'm fine," she said, trying to hide a yawn. "I'm not tired in the least." Striking a coy pose, Christine slipped off her shoes and started rubbing her stocking feet against her husband's legs. "Oh…and M. Ledoux, the organist? He asked me to thank you for the musical exercises." Grinning to herself when she heard Erik let out a soft moan, she continued massaging the calf of his leg with her foot. "He…uh, says they have been most helpful…and already he can notice an improvement in his playing. I can, too." Leaning closer, she brushed her lips against his.

"Mmm…it was…the least I could," Erik said, returning her kiss and finding himself noticeably distracted by what Christine was doing with her feet. "It…was…the least I could…do," he repeated, pausing to kiss her again, "after hearing…him hit all those…sour notes at church two weeks ago."

"So, tell me, why is it taking you two days to write a simple letter?"

He sighed and shook his head slowly. "I don't know. When I put pen to paper, I cannot seem to find the right words."

"You're trying too hard. You should simply explain who you are, and what it is you are seeking."

She slid off his lap and took the chair next to his. "I'll stay here. Maybe my presence will inspire you."

Erik laughed softly. If ever his mood was dark, he only needed to look at Christine, to see the love in her eyes, for his spirits to be lifted. Taking her advice, he tried once again. This time the words came easily. By the time Mamma called to tell them that supper was ready, the letter was written and ready to be mailed.

-0-0-0-

It was late afternoon. Erik sat at his worktable, drawing up a plan for M. Kerjean's new barn. Two weeks had passed, and he had all but given up on receiving a reply to his letter when Christine came into the room, an envelope in her hand.

"The postmaster stopped by in person to deliver this," she announced. Erik sat and stared at the piece of paper as if trying to divine its contents from a distance. "Go ahead," she said, holding it out to him. "Open it. You know you're dying to know what it says." She gave him the envelope, and taking a chair next to his, waited eagerly as he opened it. Though he took the letter from her quite confidently, she noticed the barest trace of a tremor in his hands as he slid the flap open. This was very important to him, and she knew that while he would not say so, he felt some trepidation as to what the letter might say.

Pulling out a sheet of paper filled with a neat if sprawling script, Erik read the short missive, then set it aside and sighed. He saw Christine looking at him, visibly curious as to the letter's contents. "It's from Father Martin Godenot, the current pastor of the parish," he said at last. "He writes that he only came to Boscherville eleven years ago and therefore has no firsthand knowledge of the duBois family. He is very polite, though, and has invited us to call upon him at our convenience." He looked down at the floor, then at the letter lying on the work desk. "I had so hoped for more than this," he said, disappointment in his voice. The envelope drifted to the floor.

Christine leaned down and picked it up. For an empty envelope, it felt heavy. She peered inside. "Did you see this? There's a second page inside." She pulled out the paper and handed it to Erik. As he read, she saw his expression change from one of dejection to one of hope.

Finished reading, he looked up at Christine, a small smile trying to form at the corners of his lips. "I guess I should have read the entire letter first," he said. "Here, you should read this, too."

She took the letter from Erik and began to read.

_Monsieur duBois, although I was not present in Boscherville when your family lived here, my predecessor, Fr. Mansart apparently knew them well. When I first came here as Fr. Mansart's assistant, a position I held for little more than a year before that sainted man passed on to his heavenly reward, he used to tell me of the people who lived here so that I might better understand my flock. Some of the stories he told me were happy ones, while some of them were sad. In thinking back, I recall him telling me once of Monsieur and Madame duBois and their unfortunate child._

_I want to get this off to you as quickly as possible, knowing that you are undoubtedly eager to read what I have to say, and so I have made a quick search of our records. According to them, an Absolon and Jacquelyne duBois, both of this parish, had a son who was baptized Erik and who was born on the 8th of June, 1840. Fr. Mansart wrote in the margin next to the entry that he tried to persuade the new parents to give their son a proper French name, but the wife was adamant, explaining that it was the name of her father, a man of Norwegian birth._

She looked up at Erik. "Your mother's people were Norwegian? That's makes us practically cousins."

He merely grimaced. "I really never knew that much about my parents. I suppose I should have suspected something like that, with my name spelled the way it is."

"And your father's name is Absolon. That's an unusual name, is it not?"

"Yes. Ironic, isn't it? The name is from the Hebrew for 'my father is peace'."

She wondered what he was really thinking. "Interesting," she said, then looked at the paper again. "And now I know your birthday, too. We shall have to celebrate."

Erik only snorted. "I'm not sure I like that idea. It will only make me feel old."

"Poor man," she fussed, tousling his hair. Then she turned her attention back to the letter.

_I recall Fr. Mansart telling me that when the child was about a year old, he was terribly injured and almost died. I have no information as to the details of the injury or its cause, but perhaps some of the older residents in the area might know. I looked through some of Fr. Mansart's old correspondence, which is kept with the rest of the church records, and it appears that the injury left the child an invalid, and that he was not seen afterwards._

_I am certain that some of the older parishioners may remember the family. If you would come to Boscherville, I can make some inquiries and perhaps introduce you to someone who can provide you with the information you seek. We might also go through the old church records again and see if they can illuminate these tragic events of long ago._

When she finished reading the letter, she said nothing. She instinctively put her hand on her stomach, thinking of the unborn child she was carrying, and wondering about what kind of woman Jacquelyne duBois was. Her thoughts were interrupted when Erik spoke.

"Are you up to a trip to Boscherville?" he asked. Her brow furrowed, and he explained, "I only ask because I am concerned that the journey could be tiring in your present condition."

She looked down at her stomach, then back at Erik. The seriousness of the mood was broke when she laughed. "You're not going to get rid of me that easily. I'm not the first woman to ever be expecting, but I thank you for your concern." Leaning over, she gave him a quick kiss. "Besides, I'm not going to remain here with nothing to do but housework while you're out and about. I plan on being at your side throughout the whole trip."

His own mood lightened perceptibly. "I wouldn't want it any other way."

"You once told me that you had wanted to make peace with your parents when you first returned to France."

Erik nodded. "I remember."

"Perhaps this journey will finally provide you with the opportunity to do that."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Those of you who have read Susan Kay's _Phantom_ will no doubt recognize Father Mansart. Just a little tribute on my part to that fantastic (er, phantastique?) novel.


	3. A Strange Dream

January 11, 2007 - Thank you for your patience. Here it is at last, chapter 3 of "The Gift." Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 3  
****A Strange Dream**

Erik sighed contentedly in his sleep as his mind registered the feel of Christine snuggling close to him. No matter how long he lived, he was certain that he would never tire of this sensation. Instinctively, he reached over to rest his arm around her when the sound of sobbing startled him from his sleep.

He quickly sat up and looked around the room, trying to discover who was crying and why. He turned to rouse Christine but was shocked to see that he was alone in bed, and that his wife was nowhere to be seen. Jumping out of bed, he made a hasty grab for his robe and headed down the hall towards Mamma Valérius's room. All he could think of was that something had happened to Christine's foster mother, and that it was Christine herself who was crying.

In a few strides, Erik found himself standing in front of Mamma's door. Behind it, the crying was loudest. He knocked. "Christine? Is that you? What's wrong?" There was no answer. He knocked again, this time louder. Still, there was no answer. Turning the knob, he opened the door and stepped inside. He looked around, bewildered. Instead of Mamma's bedroom, he was in a sparsely furnished room that looked more like an attic. Embers glowed dully in the fireplace, yet the room felt cold as ice. Near the fireplace was a cradle, and beside it, a small chair upon which was sat a young woman, weeping.

Erik stepped forward. "Christine?" he asked again, confused. The woman turned her tear-stained face in his direction. He thought he recognized her face and nearly cried out in astonishment when he woke up, finding himself in his own bed. He turned his head. Lying next to him, a small smile on her lips, Christine slept quietly. The crying, the strange woman, the cradle – they had been nothing more than a dream, but what a dream. It shook him to his core.

Still feeling edgy, he leaned over and kissed his wife softly on the forehead, then slipped out of bed. Erik knew there would be no going back to sleep for him tonight. Padding quietly across the room, he slipped on his robe and took a seat in the chair that sat near the fireplace. It was summer and the night was warm. There was no fire burning this night, no need for warmth from the hearth, no comforting crackling sounds to soothe.

_There is no need for a fire,_ Erik told himself. _I'm sitting here because the chair is comfortable, that is all. _

The truth was that the loneliness of the fireplace matched the loneliness that gripped him now, and so Erik sat staring at a cold, empty hearth, punishing himself, setting himself apart when what he truly needed was companionship.

With nothing else to do, he tried to figure out the meaning of the dream. He was certain it was nothing more than a manifestation of his own worries about the baby Christine was carrying – her child, no, _their_ child. Fears that his disfigurement was hereditary still plagued him. Dr. Bret had assured him that it was the result of a terrible injury. Fr. Godenot's letter seemed to confirm the doctor's pronouncement, but if this was so, why did he have no memory of such an event? Surely, something that had left him so horribly scarred would have left an imprint on his mind. Lost in thought, he never heard the footsteps behind him. A slim hand came to rest on his shoulder, at last getting his attention. He turned and saw Christine standing at his side, concern on her face.

"Is everything all right?" she asked.

"It's nothing," he said, trying to shrug off the malaise that had come over him. "Couldn't sleep. I didn't want to wake you, nothing else."

She smiled at her husband. It was obvious that something was bothering him, but he could be so stubborn, so reticent. "Let me guess. You didn't want to wake me because I'm 'sleeping for two'?" she teased, her hand brushing across her gently swollen abdomen. Recalling those days immediately after Erik had been rescued and the nightmares that had plagued his sleep, she knelt beside him and took his hands into her own. ""Erik, are you sure that's all? Were you perhaps dreaming about Fournier, about what happened in that miserable excuse for a sanitarium?" she asked, thinking that memories of his abduction and cruel treatment had disturbed her husband's sleep.

"No," he said, trying to smile. "Nothing like that. Just…nerves, I guess. Wondering what I'll learn when we get to Boscherville. I've only been there once since I left home all those years ago. I was wondering what I will find there."

Rising to her feet, Christine held out her hand to Erik, encouraging him to come with her. "You're not planning on sitting up all night in this chair, are you? The bed is much more comfortable, and if you can't sleep…well then, I can think of several ways we might while away the hours."

Erik glanced at the cold, dark, empty fireplace, then back up at Christine. She was standing in a shaft of moonlight that filtered in through the window. Bathed in the light of the moon, she looked almost ethereal, her blonde hair shining like a halo. In the light, her form was silhouetted, and Erik could not help but notice the telltale signs of her condition. At last, he smiled. In spite of his own fears, the prospect of fatherhood was something he was looking forward to. For the first time in his life, he believed he was doing something that was good.

Taking her hand, he willingly followed her from the cold emptiness of the darkened hearth to the warmth of the marriage bed.

-0-0-0-

The next day, they discussed plans for the upcoming trip.

"Have you ever been to Rouen?" he asked Christine. "It's a beautiful city, and only a short distance from Boscherville. I thought perhaps we could spend a few days there sightseeing before calling upon the good Father."

"I think I'd like that," she said. "And besides," she added suggestively, "we never really had a proper honeymoon." That was all the encouragement Erik needed.

-0-0-0-

By afternoon, he was at the train station checking on schedules. He arranged for two tickets to Rouen, which was approximately eight kilometers from Boscherville. It would be better all around for the two of them to stay in Rouen. A larger city would provide a better choice of accommodations, something particularly necessary now that Christine would be traveling with him. He would do everything to ensure that she was well cared for, and would take a suite of rooms at the best hotel in the city regardless of the expense. As for traveling to and from Boscherville, they could always use the public diligence or, better yet, hire a brougham.

Two days later, Erik and Christine departed for the train station. Mamma accompanied them and handed Christine a basket. "Who knows how long it will be before you find a reasonable restaurant or inn to eat at," she said.

Erik peeked inside. "Mmm…almond cookies. You remembered!" he exclaimed.

The older woman laughed. "How could I forget? I swear you inhale them, Erik duBois. I never saw cookies disappear from my kitchen!"

"And almond cookies are said to have aphrodisiac properties," Christine whispered playfully into his ear. "If we have a daughter, we may have to name her Amandine."

While Mamma and Christine exchanged good-byes, Erik got the attention of one of the porters. A generous tip ensured that their luggage was properly handled, and that they would have a private compartment and not be disturbed.

"My wife requires her rest," Erik stated without elaborating.

The porter tipped his hat, and respectfully averted his eyes from Erik's masked face.

In spite of the great strides he had made when it came to appearing in public, Erik still hated the stares the mask drew. In fact, he was uncomfortable as hell, often finding himself feeling as if he were on display, but he did his best to be gracious and pretend that he did not notice when people gawked or pointed.

Christine noticed these things, too, and whenever she saw someone rudely staring at her husband, she would turn and look the person square in the eye, and smile – graciously. Watching the other person squirm at being caught in such a blatantly rude act was reward enough for her.

The conductor signaled, "All aboard!" With the porter following with their few bags, Christine and Erik made their way to their compartment. As they settled into their seats, the porter asked, "Will Madame require anything further? A pillow perhaps? A blanket? There will be numerous stops along the way, and the journey could become quite tiring."

"That would be most appreciated. Thank you," she replied, flashing the man her most radiant smile.

A few minutes later, the porter returned with two pillows and two blankets. "In case Monsieur would like to rest as well," he explained. "When we arrive in Rouen, I shall return to help you with your bags and see that you get transportation to the best hotel in the city." The porter bowed politely and prepared to leave.

Erik, softening towards the man, handed the porter a few more bank notes. "For your trouble."

A huge smile erupted on the porter's face. "Thank _you_, Monsieur."

-0-0-0-

As promised, the train ride to Rouen was tedious at times, but Erik and Christine made the best of it. For the most part, they remained in their compartment, coming out only occasionally when Christine felt the urge to stretch her legs and walk the corridor. Otherwise, they divided their time between reading, watching the scenery fly by, and nibbling on the contents of Mamma's goodie basket.

At the station in Rouen, their porter, true to his word, got them on their way to a good hotel near the _Place du Vieux Marché_, the old market square. In that way, he explained, they would be in the heart of the city, close to everything. At the hotel, Christine laid down for a quick nap, having found the trip more tiring than she had expected. Erik, in turn, sent a wire to Father Godenot, informing the priest that he was in Rouen and that he and his wife wished to take in the famous sites of the city before coming to Boscherville. That evening, they had supper in their room.

-0-0-0-

The next few days were spent touring Rouen, the ancient capital of the Normans. Their walks took them to the _Place de la Pucelle_, reputed to be where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake. They strolled the ancient streets lined with half-timbered buildings. They visited the galleries at the _Aître Saint-Maclou._ Centuries ago, these buildings had served as an ossuary. On the horizontal beams could still be seen the symbols of its earlier use – skulls, crossbones and gravediggers' equipment carved – grim reminders of the plague that once ravaged the city.

They took in the _Gros Horloge_, the Great Clock of the Renaissance. Then there were the churches – St. Maclou Church, named for a Breton saint, the abbey of St Ouen, and the great Notre Dame Cathedral of Rouen with its majestic spires and the tomb of the heart of Richard _Couer de Lion_.

Christine was pleasantly surprised that Erik so willingly visited the churches with her. He insisted that his interests were purely architectural, but she wondered. Inside the cathedral, she pretended not to notice when Erik discreetly bowed his head when he thought no one was looking.

They shopped the _Rue Saint-Romain_, with its picturesque Gothic and Renaissance buildings, and walked the cobblestone _Rue Eau de Robec_, brightly lined with flowers. Returning to their hotel from one such stroll, they found a letter from Fr. Godenot waiting for them. Erik quickly opened the envelope.

"What does he have to say?" asked Christine.

"The priest writes that he may have found someone who remembers my parents…and me."

-0-0-0-


	4. A Letter from Jacquelyne

January 16, 2007

A big thank you to my beta and good friend, MadLizzy, who is truly the voice of Jacquelyne duBois. ML worked very hard with me in constructing motives behind the actions of Erik's parents, and did the bulk of the work on the series of letters Jacquelyne wrote, and which you will read over the next couple of chapters.

* * *

-0-0-0-

**Chapter 4  
A Letter from Jacquelyne**

_August 1881_

"Do you know anything about this woman, Phalene Guiscard?" Christine asked, finding Erik's distracted silence uncomfortable as they rode in the rented carriage, on their way to the village of St-Martin-de-Boscherville.

Erik stopped looking out the window and back at his wife. "I'm sorry, I…," he hesitated before admitting, "I wasn't listening."

Christine chuckled. "Yes, so I've noticed. I'm the one who should apologize, though, for bothering you with my useless chatter when you've obviously got so much on your mind."

He reached over and squeezed her hand. "I never tire of hearing your 'useless chatter,' and I hereby grant you permission to bother me whenever you wish. As to your question, no, I know nothing about Mme Guiscard other than what Fr. Godenot wrote in his letter – that she was for many years a midwife for the village and apparently was the one who attended my birth."

"Ah," Christine nodded knowingly, "then you were listening." A bump in the road unseated her enough to push her closer to Erik. Taking advantage of the situation, she leaned over and rested her head against his body.

Erik reached out with his arm and held her close, grinning when he said, "I guess I did hear some of what you were saying."

"But you just weren't in the mood to answer. That's all right." Christine craned her neck to look out the window. "So tell me, what do you see out there is so fascinating?"

"I'm not sure I would call it fascination. I've been scanning the scenery, hoping something would stir a memory. Unfortunately, nothing looks familiar."

She could hear the disappointment in his voice. This trip meant so much to him, the possibility that he might learn the truth about himself, about his appearance. "But you were very young when you left home. How old did you say you were? Ten?"

"Younger. I think I must have been around eight years old."

"I imagine a lot has changed over the years. You're not nervous, are you?"

He shot her a wry look. "Who, me? Nervous? But I do have a lot of questions for Mme Guiscard."

-0-0-0-

The village of St-Martin-de-Boscherville had changed little over the years, situated as it was near the bank of the Seine River and surrounded on three sides by the Roumare forest. Its greatest claim to fame was the Benedictine abbey of St. Georges de Boscherville, with its 12th century Romanesque church, chapter house, monastic buildings, chapel and gardens dominating the countryside.

Arriving at the rectory, Erik and Christine were greeted at the door by the housekeeper, who showed the couple into the parlor. As they introduced themselves to Fr. Godenot, Erik silently took his measure of the priest.

Father Martin Godenot was at the indeterminate time of life commonly called "middle age," with dark brown hair tinted gray at the temples. His face was not handsome, but neither was it ugly. Plain would be a better description, thought Erik, plain like a peasant's face. It was his smile, however, that set the priest apart, a smile that was truly genuine, without a trace of artifice.

"Welcome to Boscherville, M. duBois," Fr. Godenot said, extending his hand, which Erik readily accepted. The priest offered them both a seat in the parlor, where the housekeeper served them tea and small cakes. "After receiving your letter, I made a few inquiries. I also found where your parents are buried. If you are interested, I can show you the graves of Absolon and Jacquelyne duBois. They are in the churchyard, only a very short walk from here."

This revelation was not one he had considered. Speaking of his parent's graves, Erik had expected to feel some kind of emotion. He was surprised, however, that he felt nothing but curiosity. Nonetheless, curiosity was better than no feelings at all, and so the three of them took the short walk to the cemetery. There, the priest led Erik and Christine to two small, unobtrusive gravestones off to the side of the burying ground. The markers were devoid of the symbolism typically found on tombstones, no images depicting death or rebirth. Instead, there were only names and dates: Absolon duBois, 1818-1855 and Jacquelyne, his wife, 1820-1854. No flowers or other memorials decorated the lonely-looking graves, only grass growing wildly around them.

"I'm sorry, M. duBois, for the condition of these graves," Fr. Godenot apologized. "We are a rather small parish, and it is usually left to the families to care for the graves."

Erik shook his head. "There is no need to apologize, Father. I understand completely." He stood staring at the names, trying to understand what it was he had expected to feel. Certainly not this strange lack of emotion.

The priest was speaking again. "As I wrote in my letter, I located the midwife who says she delivered you. Her name is Phalene Guiscard. Mme Guiscard is quite elderly, over 80 years old I believe, but very much in charge of her senses. When I spoke to her of your initial inquiry, she said that she knew your parents and would be willing to speak to you about them."

Erik looked at the priest. "When can we see her?"

"We can go this afternoon."

-0-0-0-

"What can you tell me about my parents…and about myself?" Erik asked the old woman sitting across from him.

Phalene Guiscard looked like the quintessential grandmother. She was a petite woman, her face a map of wrinkles topped with snow-white hair. She folded her gnarled hands in her lap and thought for a moment before speaking. "Absolon was a proud man, a vain man. He was not intentionally mean, but had a temper that he could not always control. Jacquelyne, on the other hand, was highly strung and easily upset. They were a very handsome couple, and in spite of the differences in their personalities, I believe they truly loved one another. When you were born, they were happy in spite of these things. Perhaps, if there had been no accident, your parents might have lived out their lives peaceably enough."

The mention of an accident caught Erik's ear. "Accident? What accident?"

The old woman's brows knit together. "You mean…you don't know? You don't remember?"

"I have no memory of an accident. I have spent my entire life believing I was born…disfigured." He gestured at the mask he wore. "When I spoke to a physician recently, he told me he was sure that the disfigurement is the result of a long-ago injury. Then I received Fr. Godenot's letter, mentioning an accident. I have no memories of any such incident. Please, Madame, illuminate me."

"I can do better." Phalene got up and went to the bureau. Opening one of the drawers, she pulled out a small stack of letters tied together with string. "I don't know what made me keep these all this time. I suppose it was that I thought one day you would return." She turned to Erik and handed him the packet. "These were written for you. They're from your mother. She wrote one for you every year on your birthday while she lived. You should read them first. Then, I'll try to answer your questions."

Erik took the packet of letters and, oblivious to those around him, opened the first one and began to read.

-0-0-0-

_St-Martin-de-Boscherville  
__8 June 1850_

_My dearest son,_

_Today is your 9th birthday. It has been almost a year since you disappeared, and I pray that you will return soon, to find me waiting for you with open arms. If, however, you return and I am gone, then this letter is my gift to you. It is all I have to offer. May you find within the answers to questions you most assuredly have but were unable to ask before you felt compelled to leave us. With all my heart, I hope that wherever you are, you are safe and that you have found the happiness I could not provide for you. _

_I can only imagine how tall you've grown these past months, how big you must be by now! You were always such a big boy, such a good boy. Late at night, when the house is quiet and still, I go into your attic room and close the door, imagining that I can still hear you singing quietly to yourself. Are you singing from Heaven for me now?_

_What an extraordinarily good baby you were! You never slept the day away like most babies; you had too much to learn! From the moment you were born, you were wide-awake, studying the world around you. And such a beautiful baby boy you were! Strong and intelligent, you cried lustily when you were pulled from my womb, and then you never cried again…until the accident. You were the perfect baby in every way. You had the face of an angel, and your voice was melodious. You were always drawn to music, and could often be found singing to yourself as you tapped out rhythms with a wooden spoon on the backs of my pots and pans. Your curiosity was insatiable; you were like an old soul staring out on a New World, eager to learn what it could offer you. You were unquenchable in your quest for knowledge, your drive to learn and explore. In the end, that curiosity nearly cost you your life. _

_My darling boy, when you were born, your father and I knew you were a Gift from Above. No father could have been prouder than he, to have you as his son. You were strong and handsome, the perfect image of Absolon. We knew that you would be our only child, and so every day we thanked the Holy Mother for our happiness in sending us an angel to make our lives complete. Those were the happiest days of my life – those days before I nearly killed you. _

_It was my fault, Erik. I swear, I never meant to hurt you! Your father had been injured when a scaffold collapsed, and he required constant care. I was exhausted, trying to tend the both of you. You were almost a year old at the time, and as with all babies your age, you were into everything, constantly moving and pulling and exploring. I turned my back for but a moment, but it was long enough to change our destinies forever. _

_I can still hear your horrific cries in my head. The sound was horrible, and I came rushing to the kitchen to find that you had pulled the boiling pot of soup down upon your face – your perfect, angelic face – and…it melted away like snow in the rain. I beg you, Erik, forgive me! Forgive me for my carelessness, for my stupidity. I never meant to put you in harm's way. A moment's negligence, a lifetime of pain. A lifetime of regret. _

_The wounds were terrible. For days, we lingered between madness and death, not knowing if you would survive. Mme Guiscard, the old midwife who had birthed you, believed no baby could survive such a horrible injury. She told us that we should pray for a quick release from your suffering, but your father and I prayed on bended knee to whatever gods would listen for your very life. _

_When we thought all was lost, you opened your eyes and recognized me! You were unable to nurse, so badly injured were your lips, and so I pressed out a drop of milk at a time from my engorged breasts into your tiny mouth. The first time you swallowed, your father and I rejoiced. Absolon wept tears of gratitude, and promised to build the Lord a pulpit in the Chapel of St. Jude... Gradually, we came to understand that survival was not the same as recovery. Our prayers had been answered, but not without a price. Never would we look on you again with absolute wonder at your beauty, your physical perfection!_

_Mme Guiscard came by to check on you daily, but soon I realized that her futile ministrations only provoked your father's anger. He forbade her to ever return to our home. Gradually, I lost all contact with the outside world, as your well-being became the focus of my life. Over time, that meant keeping you away from your father, out of his sight. By now, his injury was causing him no end of aggravation. It prevented him from earning the money necessary to send you away for medical treatment. He began to think of himself as a failed man who could not provide for his only child. His mind began to crumble. _

_At first, he blamed himself for your suffering. Then, he came to realize that I was the one who bore blame, and he turned on me with vengeance. He hardly recognized me any more! At the slightest provocation, he would fly into a blind rage and rail at me. Where once he treasured me, he now hated the very sight of me. If my family had not been foreigners in this land, he would scream at me, more contracts might have come his way. If I had not named you after my father, the saints would have smiled on his business ventures. _

_Even I began to wonder whether God was punishing us through you. I found myself believing that Absolon would not ever have been injured, if only I had not been determined to remember my family, my false religion, my ways; that you would never have been hurt if I had not been such a lazy, ignorant, heathen. _

_You were too young to understand that I deserved your father's wrath. You would cry whenever your father raised his voice at me – or his hand. The first time your father raised his hand against me, you protested mightily! If you had been able to defend me from his anger, Erik, I am sure you would have done so! You raised your tiny fists and raged at him! My brave, brave warrior in swaddling clothes. _

_Your father couldn't bear the sound of your cries, and that is when I began hiding you in the attic, Erik. I thought that if you were quiet, your father wouldn't be so angry, or at the very least, he would not lash out at you. You were only a baby. _

_My baby boy, forgive me for all that you have endured, for all that you have suffered, and for all that you have witnessed. _

_With all my love,_

_Your Mamma_

-0-0-0-

Erik handed the letter to Christine, and looked at Phalene Guiscard, his face pale. "This is not the mother I remember."

* * *


	5. Conflicting Emotions

January 20, 2007

I'm not sure how soon I will have chapter 6 written, as I have a very busy week coming up. In the meantime, however, I give you...chapter 5. --HD

* * *

**Chapter 5  
Conflicting Emotions**

Erik stared at the letter and shook his head in disbelief. "I remember nothing like this. I don't remember my mother being a loving, caring woman. The woman I knew was cold and unfeeling. As for my father? He was an intemperate man with a cruel streak. This…mother? She must be a figment of someone's imagination." He took a deep breath as he paused a moment to collect his thoughts, then turned to Christine and handed her the letter. "Please, I would like you to read these as well."

"Are you sure?" she asked, accepting the letter gingerly, wanting to know the truth as much as Erik did, but not wanting to pry, either.

He nodded, a sad looking smile emerging from his face. "Of course. We agreed that there would be no secrets between us, remember?"

"Yes, of course." She accepted the faded letter and held it in her hands, almost afraid of what she would read.

Phalene Guiscard merely bobbed her head, her eyes taking on a far-away look that betokened she was recalling old memories of her own. "You must keep in mind, Erik, that you are remembering the past through the eyes of a very young child. On the other hand, when your mother wrote these letters to you, she was seeing these events through the eyes of a woman wracked by terrible grief and guilt. Somewhere in between these two versions of the past, there is a portion of truth. Perhaps if you read the others, you will better understand."

Erik looked at the remaining letters, then back at the old midwife. "Do you know what is in these letters?"

"Yes," Phalene acknowledged, "but it would be best for you to read them yourself."

-0-0-0-

_St-Martin-de-Boscherville  
__June 8, 1851_

_My dearest son, _

_Happy birthday, Erik. Today is your tenth birthday, and I have decided to mark the occasion with a letter. Each year on this date, I shall write to you. I continue to cling to the hope that you have found a good and caring home. In my dreams, I imagine you with tender and caring parents, playing with the brothers and sisters I could not give you. Each night I pray for you, my son. I pray to the Holy Mother to guide your footsteps to loving arms. I pray for you to find the happiness that you deserve. _

_I often think back on that fateful day when you left us, and though I miss you greatly, I rejoice that you got away when you did. You were right to run for your life. I wonder, do you ever think of that night, the night you escaped? Your father had been in a particularly quarrelsome mood and his blows nearly killed us both. _

_I had vexed him sorely, and when he rebuked me for my un-wifely behavior, you tried to stop him, but he was too big for you. What he had intended to do to me, he did to you, instead – a mere boy of only eight years! I could not stop him, and feared he would kill you, but somehow you found the strength to steal away. Later, I searched for you in your room, and found that you were not there, seeing instead the window you had scampered out of – to your freedom._

_I feared the worst and berated your father for driving you from us. I ran out spent the night searching the Roumare forest as far as the Seine, dreading that you had been scavenged by wild animals. Eventually, I gave up hope of finding you and returned to Absolon. I told him that you were gone, hoping that this would bring him to his senses. He never said a word about your leaving, only stared at me with incredulity. I think he finally realized what he had done, as your father was not always a harsh man, my son. I made him thus. Let me tell you what he was like, this handsome, proud man I married. _

_The first time I saw Absolon duBois, he was standing in the Town Square and with that one look, my heart soared. He was a strikingly attractive man, taller than any other man I had ever seen. If I close my eyes, I can still see him as he looked that day, with his coal black hair, his complexion fair, like that of a man who never worked outside a day in his life. When he smiled, the entire world was at his beck and call. Every woman wanted to be his bride. _

_His eyes were the color of the changing sea, and still are, if you look carefully. When we were newly married, he was a kind and gentle soul. I remember once he found a maimed dog in the gutter. He brought it home to care for, and spent two sleepless nights nursing it until the poor thing finally succumbed to its wounds. This was the man I married – a tender man who brought me wood violets and quoted poetry. He loved it when I sang, and would compliment me, saying to me that I had the voice of an angel. And he loved you, Erik. Later, when you were born, he wanted nothing more than to show you off to his friends, boasting of how you were the smartest, most beautiful baby ever born. _

_As a mason, he was highly skilled and sought perfection in all he did. This quest for excellence went beyond his labors. He wanted the perfect family as well. He would explain patiently to me that his work must be perfect—why not his wife and son. At the time, I found it amusing, even charming. Little did I know the hardship it foretold._

_My innocent child, when you think back on us, I pray you will find it in your heart to remember the good as well as the bad. You were to be your father's heir. He loved to imagine the two of you working side by side when you got older. He would speak of the day in the future when you would marry and raise a family close by. He knew that a boy as fine as you would never want for anything in life, and he believed that together, you and he would build the best houses in all of France – a fitting testimonial for all of the duBois family for generations to come. To your father, you were proof that he could accomplish perfection itself. You were the living embodiment of all his hopes and dreams. You not only gave him a reason to excel; you proved to him that his entire life's work was meaningful…that he was meaningful._

_Alas, I destroyed all that. How I envied you for escaping that night! I knew that in your heart, you believed that you were responsible for all our sorrows – that your father and I would be happier without you. My darling, if only you knew the truth! It was not you, Erik. It was not your face, nor your God-given intelligence that unnerved your father! It was the knowledge that had it not been for me, for my negligence, you would have been perfect – his proudest accomplishment! Whatever fate befalls me, I have earned it. I deserve to be punished for what I allowed to happen to you, my son. _

_If you remember me at all, I hope you remember those times when I held you and cuddled you and told you that I loved you. I fed you, bathed you, and clothed you. I sang to you, and rocked you, and put a cool hand on your fevered brow when you were teething. I paced the floor with you, and I taught you your first word. "Da-da! Da-da! Da-da!" you sang, like a little lark. It brought tears to your father's eyes to hear it. _

_I gave you music. I taught you your first song, and I showed you my father's compositions. You were much too young to remember this, I am sure, but I want you to know, my son, that it was not always bad. There were good times, happy memories, and a semblance of normalcy before our world was shattered. _

_Think of me when you see wood violets, my loving son. _

_With all my love,  
__Your Mamma_

-0-0-0-

_St.-Martin-de-Boscherville  
__8 June 1852_

_My dear son, _

_By now, God willing, you are eleven years old. I have accepted that you are lost to us forever, and that you will never see these letters. It is not that your father and I deserve to see you again, but there is a hole in our lives, a gaping chasm that was left when you ran away. Whatever wrongs we committed, there is no possibility we can ever make it right. _

_The truth is, before you ran away, I could hardly bear to look at you. I confess that I was anguished by what I had done. As you grew, your scars became more and more terrible. Your father forbade you to leave your room without your mask, and if he caught you outside your room with a bare face, he would thrash us both soundly. Honestly, at times I thought you provoked him. You behaved as though you wanted to be caught so you could see him beat me. I know now that you hated me, too, and that you blamed me for your condition as much as Absolon did. _

_I understand now how unbearable it must have been for you, living here with parents who moved like ghosts by day and by night, barely speaking to one another – let alone to you. Your father and I both avoided you, hoping to forget you were even in the same house with us. Eventually, we managed to isolate you so that we rarely even saw you. You knew well enough to be quiet, unless you wanted to be taught a lesson. _

_Your father and I were always angry at each other, and we vented our frustrations on you – the innocent one among us. Once upon a time, your father and I were deeply in love. If a fortune-teller had told us this is what would happen to us, we would have laughed in her face. When you were born, there were no happier people in all of France. _

_Your father's injury changed all that, however. Absolon was never one to complain of aches and pains. He said his own father had taught him better than to cry. I never understood what he meant by that until the night you ran away. He had beaten you so badly you sagged to your knees like a rag doll. You lay on the floor in your own blood, whimpering like that maimed dog he had brought home years earlier. He kicked you, and finally you were still and quiet. "There!" he shouted. "That's how my father taught me to be a man."_

_I never knew your father's parents, Erik. They did not approve of our marriage. They told him he should marry a local girl, someone with better ties to the community. "Foreigners must always prove themselves," they would say to him, "especially during the kind of political and religious upheavals we are experiencing in France at this time." Absolon scoffed at them, told them they were old-fashioned, and said, "As long as we act like patriots and good Catholics, we will be accepted."_

_Perhaps we should have listened to them. Several generations earlier, your father's family had migrated across central Europe before arriving in Normandy. They knew first-hand how difficult life could be for those who were different. Your grandmother's Hebrew blood had limited their opportunities, and they learned that if they wanted to prosper, they needed to put aside all remnants of their religion and assimilate into the community. _

_They warned him that I would be bad for his business, because my family had not lived in this country long, and because of my foreign customs. Absolon did not care that I had not converted to Catholicism. My family, coming from Norway, were Lutherans. Absolon said, "What difference did it make? There is only one God, and He hears all our prayers." He seemed to have all the answers to any objections that were raised to our marriage. _

_Absolon had confidence that I would be an excellent homemaker and give him a houseful of children. In those days, he gathered flowers from the forest and brought them to me in a paper cone. Wood violets were my favorite, so he made a special effort to find them, being careful to gather a few of the heart-shaped leaves to remind me of his affection. You should have known him then, Erik! _

_Try to imagine what he was like before he was injured. His large, strong hands were perfectly suited to his work, and he handled massive stones with ease. He was agile, and afraid of nothing. He eagerly climbed the high scaffolding to check the stonework of the apprentices and laborers. His men respected him, because there was no work he could not do, and he labored along side them from sun up till sun down. He was indefatigable, always full of energy, always ready with a smile or a word of encouragement. _

_However, at night, when he came home dirty and tired, he would sometimes snap at me. His words could be cruel. I ruined the food by putting too much salt in it, he would say. He worked hard to bring home enough money for me to buy good meat and produce, why could I not learn to cook like his mother, he would ask. The food was barely edible, to hear him talk. Nevertheless, I knew it was only the stress of his job speaking –- and the fact that I had not brought him the children he so desperately wanted. _

_I prayed to the Blessed Virgin every day to help me, begged her to take pity on me and give me a child. One child, I begged, only one, for a poor sinner such as me. Finally, when we had been married for a little over four years, our prayers were answered. _

_Everything was going well. Absolon could not have been happier when the midwife confirmed my delicate condition. "A son, at last!" he said, picking me up and swinging me around like a child. He immediately began drawing plans for an addition to our house – a bright, sunny nursery. _

_He could not bear to see me bending over the hearth and arranged for a wood stove to be delivered right away. He made me laugh, telling me that learning to cook on a stove might improve my marginal culinary skills. His business was flourishing, and he was gaining a reputation for excellence as a stonemason. He was very much in demand. We were even beginning to set aside a small amount of savings. When I neared the period of my confinement, your father painted a sign that read, "Absolon duBois and Son, Stonemasons." _

_He surprised me one morning by bringing me breakfast in bed, along with a nosegay of violets – and the freshly painted shingle, still wet. He kissed me and said, "All my hopes and dreams depend on you," and he left for work, insisting that I stay in bed. He turned and looked at me before leaving, saying he wanted to think of me all day as I looked at that moment – my hair in a long braid, my nightdress buttoned up to the chin, and my eyes still crossed with drowsiness. He was a good man, before we were made to suffer beyond our endurance. I hope you can remember that, Erik. It was not always bad. We were happy once. _

_Childbirth was not easy for me. I used to say it was the only time you ever gave me trouble. I was in labor for such a long time that the midwife sent for the doctor, worried that it might be necessary to cut me open to save you. Absolon begged her not to use the knife. He said he could not bear to live without me. He loved me then, you must see, before I destroyed all his faith in me. _

_The midwife administered quieting medicines that eased the pain, and your father braced me from behind, holding me in a sitting position. He and Mme Guiscard worked throughout the night trying to birth you. I do not remember much of it, due to the draught, but when morning came, I opened my eyes and there you were – I had been delivered of the most beautiful baby I have ever seen in my life, sleeping safely beside me. You opened your eyes and looked at me with complete clarity and understanding. _

"_He has your eyes," I said to Absolon, who was so tired he staggered across the room to sit on the bed with the two of us. "I want to name him Erik, after my father. He has the same frown," I laughed, as you scowled and then smiled, gazing at your exhausted parents._

_The midwife brought in tea, and instructed me not to drink or eat anything hot while holding you, lest some spill and burn you. Absolon placed you in the cradle that he had made with his own two hands and we drank our tea while Mme Guiscard calmly explained that I would not be able to give your father any more children. _

"_One perfect, healthy son is enough," Absolon said, kissing my hand. But I knew from the sadness in his eyes, and the set of his jaw, that he secretly mourned the loss of the large family he had always hoped to have. _

_The midwife promised to tell me secrets that would prevent any possibility of an unexpected increase, but the Church would never stand for it. Your father was always the strong one. He ensured there would be no chance of any more children. Gradually, he barely looked at me any more. I supposed he could not stand the sight of me. _

_You were the apple of his eye, though. You were fascinated by the stone yard, and I would take you there to watch the workmen with their noisy hammers and their heavy carts. You'd reach your little hand out to pet the draft horses, and occasionally your father would slip you a chocolate when he thought I would not notice. You loved it when I would dress you for a visit to your father in the middle of the day. We'd take a picnic lunch for him, and watch the workmen while we ate. It was heaven, but the music from the cathedral beckoned to you. Until you could walk, you would try to crawl into the church, following the sound of the organ. Once you began to pull up and to take a few tentative, first steps, I told your father, "God help us! We must watch him every moment now." Those would prove to be prophetic words._

_My son, wherever you are, I hope you have found peace. I hope that you are warm at night, and that you have enough food to eat. And if you are not on this earth, I hope you are in the arms of the Blessed Mother, in a far better place than I could ever have given you._

_All my love,  
__Mamma _

-0-0-0-

_St-Martin-de-Boscherville  
__8 June 1853_

_My dear son,_

_Another year has passed, and if you were here with us, we would be celebrating your twelfth birthday today – almost a man. I sometimes wonder if you even remember me, or if you are looking down on me from heaven. _

_A few nights ago, a tribe of Gypsies passed by the town. I had hoped that seers were among them – they are famed for the dark arts, you know, for fortune telling, and for all manner of esoterica. I thought to find their caravan and pay them to discern for me, and would have done so, too, had your father not caught me and kept me from running after them. "We have no money for the likes of them," he said. "Even if they could tell us, what would we do about it? We barely have enough to live on as it is, with only the two of us."_

_To this day, Absolon never lets me forget for one moment that I am the one who caused your accident; that I am the one who made you run away; and that if not for me, his business would still be thriving. What a sad and bitter man he is, Erik! Life's adversities have made him careworn and cruel, but you know as much yourself. You told me yourself, a day or two before you escaped, do you remember?_

"_Tell me how to be a good boy, Mamma," you asked, "so that Papa won't hate me so much. How can I help him, so that he doesn't have to work so very hard? I'll eat less, Mamma, so that you won't have to buy as much food. I won't grow as fast if I don't eat too much, and then you won't have to worry about getting clothes for me as often." You even tried to make me laugh about it. "I don't need much, Mamma, really I don't," you said, from behind the closed attic door. "Why should I have two pairs of pants, when I can only wear one at a time?" _

_The last night you were here, I left your ration outside the room and waited for your father to fall asleep in his chair. He had overindulged again and stumbled home from the tavern, where he was thrown out on his ear. He was no longer welcome, he told me, since he was prone to fighting. I wondered what really happened, but I knew it meant the worst for me. If your father were not fighting with grown men, he would be the Devil himself at home. _

_He is nothing like the man I married, the kind and gentle boy who brought me wildflowers. He was not always this way, though. Do you remember what happened to him, my boy? When you were nearly a year old, your father received a contract for repairs on the cathedral. The stone façade had begun to deteriorate, and Absolon hoped to reinforce it and reline it with new mortar before it needed to be replaced completely. Scaffolding had been built that reached the roof. _

_He was always eager to be the first to arrive at the project, and wanted to watch the sunrise from the highest vantage, since he said he already felt like he was on top of the world. Some of the others who arrived early said that he climbed like a monkey, quickly scaling the maze of rope and wood. He had almost made it to safety when the scaffolding began to give way. He scrambled for a handhold, for footing, but found none. How high must he have been when it gave way? It was a miracle he survived. _

_The workmen brought him home on a litter, and he languished near death for days. You were inconsolable without your best friend and playmate, the strapping young man who carried you on his shoulders and helped you reach the highest apples on the tree, the man who caught butterflies for you to inspect. You were too young to understand what had happened, but instinctively you knew something was terribly wrong and remained unusually quiet. _

_He was unconscious for so long that I began to lose hope that he would ever wake up. I stayed up with him all night long and cared for you all day, and found myself walking around like a phantom. I only slept during your brief naps, and you hardly ever took them. As Absolon once said, you did not have time to sleep. You were too busy learning about the world. It seemed as if the only time I slept was when you were nursing. _

_At last, Absolon's eyes fluttered and he regained consciousness. Yours was the first face he saw. "My son," he said. "My perfect, beautiful boy." He needed constant care for the next few days, and he became irritable since he could not work. He was not able play with you much, but you sat on his bed and entertained him with your singing and clapping, and by counting his fingers and toes over and over again. You astonished him. _

"_Look, Mamma!" I heard him call. He held up one finger on his left hand. On his right, he held up three. "How many?" he asked you. _

"_Free," you said, and then shook your head. "Three."_

_Your father was so happy, he stood up and held you high, kissing your rosy little cheeks over and over again. "My genius!" he laughed. "He's as smart as he is beautiful!" he boasted. He was still regaining his strength, still not able to work, when God punished us for our pride. We were sinfully proud of your unnatural beauty, Erik, so God took it away, to teach us a lesson. I suppose it is only right. No human should be flawless. Not to question the will of God, but Oh! How you suffered! The pain must have been unbearable. _

_I don't blame him, truly I don't, but your father was no help at all during your convalescence. He could not be rational whenever he looked at you, and he blamed me constantly for all of my shortcomings. His clients turned to other contractors for their masonry, since your father could not work. We exhausted our savings, seeking medical care for the two of you. Rumors of the disaster with the scaffolding did not inspire confidence in your father, and it was difficult for him to find work. Although he suspected the scaffolding had been tampered with by a competitor hoping to steal business from him, he could not prove it. _

_I tried to find work as a maid or a cook, and I could even sew a little, but I quickly learned that your father would not watch you while I was working. He could not bear to look at you. No one could, and who could blame them? It was a grotesque injury. The flesh had literally melted on the injured side of your face, and as proud flesh replaced the dead, you almost had the appearance of a thing more dead than alive. Clearly, if you were to have any contact at all with people, you would have to spare them the sight, shield them from the hideousness of it, and so, on your first birthday, I gave you your first present: A mask. _

_We both quickly learned that as long as you wore your mask, your father could tolerate your presence reasonably well – at least for a time. Eventually, not even the mask provided enough of a shield to protect either of us. You were a constant reminder of disappointment to your father – of all his failures and shortcomings. _

_As you grew, and as your insatiable curiosity grew, your father grew less and less patient with you. "He has no common sense!" he shouted one day, when you had dared to touch his drafting tools. You were barely three years old the first time he lost his temper with you and started to shake you. I had to snatch you away from him before he could rattle your brain. _

_He raised his hand to strike me, and you howled at him to stop. Your father went cold as ice, and while I held you in my arms, he hit me with his open hand repeatedly. I dropped you to the floor, hoping you would skitter away, but you clung to his leg and screamed for him to stop. Finally, he came to his sense. He fell to his knees and held you and begged us both to forgive him. He swore it would never happen again. But it did happen. Again and again, it happened. _

_Wherever you are, my son, I hope you have found the peace and security that eluded you during the first eight years of your life. It may be blasphemy, but God owes you some small measure of happiness, after everything you went through. _

_All my love,  
__Mamma_

-0-0-0-

_St-Martin-de-Boscherville  
__8 June 1854_

_My dear son,_

_You are thirteen years old today. You must be nearly full-grown! You would be well into your apprenticeship with your father by now, if you were still with us, but that is probably a silly dream on my part. Your father does not work much anymore. His old injuries pain him greatly, and he drinks to dull the ache. I have heard men talking about him in the market square when they think I am not listening. They say he can't be relied upon, that he doesn't think clearly any more. They say that he is not strong enough to do the work. _

_Little do they know! He's strong enough to throw me down effortlessly, especially when he's been drinking. He's sharp enough to know when I've cut the flour with talcum, or when I've added water to his whisky. He's fast enough with his fists, when there's no work to tire him out and distract him. _

_Every time he looks at me he has a reminder of the ways in which I've let him down. Worst of all, I am no wife to him. I sleep in your old room now, on the blanket that you left behind. The door is strong, and no matter how determined he is, Absolon has not been able to break it down. I stay here nearly all the time now, trying to avoid your father at all costs. _

_I found your hiding place, Erik. I leaned on the window sash, imagining how you climbed out the window, when it gave way. There, hiding in the cavity under the window frame, were scraps of paper you'd used to practice writing, along with some of your other treasures, including a lucky acorn and a wishing stone. There's an owl feather, and a scrap of fabric from your baby blanket. It's faded and mildewed, but I can make out your initials, embroidered in the corner, in the way that I made your entire layette when I was expecting you. It made me weep, to imagine you holding onto these items, alone in the attic. _

_It does no good to cry over spilled milk, or to moan about what might have been, but I cling to the memory of our happiness before your father's accident ruined him, and before you were ruined. As I watched a storm the other day, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the windowpane, and I thought, "Is that really me? When did I grow old?" You wouldn't recognize me, Erik, were you to pass me on the street. I've lost my looks, as your father is quick to point out. I've lost a few teeth, and my hair is falling out. My sallow complexion makes me look much older than thirty-three, and I am thin and frail. _

_Not that it matters now. I've lost everything. I lost my husband long before I lost you. I know that if I stay here, I will likely end up dead. Your father doesn't mean to hurt me, but he does. Now that I have taken your place in isolation, I don't know how you stood it. There are times when I long for human contact so badly that I would rather feel Absolon's hand across my face than have no human contact at all._

_When I was holding your wishing stone, my son, I thought, "If I could have one wish, it would be that Erik is healthy." Then I become greedy, and I want you to be perfect again. I want to hear you sing once more, and to feel your tiny arms around me as you hug me and tell me that you love your dear Mamma. I know, though, that you are never coming home again – or if you do, it will be too late for me. _

_Erik, you must have taught yourself to write. You wrote that you caused your mamma to cry, and that you caused your father to be angry. Whatever happened, son, it was not your fault. We failed you, Erik, but you never failed us. You were always ready and willing to forgive us, to nurture us, and to help us even though we neglected your needs. You were the one taking care of us all along, only we didn't know it. No little boy ever tried harder than you did to keep your family together. _

_The last night you were here, you were struck until you were senseless. I thought your father would kill you. When at last you came to, you looked at me and said, "Forgive me, Mother." I thought you were apologizing, because felt you had not protected me, but I realized later it was because you had decided to run away. You wrote – see it? Do you see it on the paper, in your own handwriting? You wrote, "My Papa will stop being angry if he doesn't have to see me any more." Darling, nothing could have been further from the truth! Your father's problems were not your fault. Believe me when I say that you are blameless. I am the only one who bears blame. I am so very deeply flawed, Erik, in so very many ways. I regret that I was not a good mother, more than you will ever know. _

_Good-bye my love, my only son, my dearest Erik! If you think of me, and of your dear father, remember us as we once were. We loved you. We were happy together, the three of us, for a time._

_All my love,  
__Mamma _

Erik's hands trembled slightly as his mind churned with conflicting emotions. Everything he had always believed was turned upside-down. For many minutes, he could not move, could only sit and stare at the faded pieces of paper. Christine came over and put her hand on his. He went to hand her the letters, when he saw something sticking out from between the pages. It was a daguerreotype. Picking it up, he gazed at the picture of a handsome young man, his smiling wife holding an infant in her arms.

He heard the sharp intake of Christine's breath. "Erik, he…he looks just like you."

* * *


	6. Absolon, My Absolon

January 22, 2007

Don't expect an update this quick all the time. I lucked out this weekend. My trustees' meeting was postponed, and I was able to work on the next chapter. Oh, and before I forget -- HANKIE WARNING!!

* * *

**Chapter 6  
Absolon, My Absolon**

Erik sat in his chair, mesmerized by the picture, confused by the memories and conflicting emotions that suddenly rushed back into his mind. He ran his fingers across the images, as if by touching them he could once again make contact with them, might know them better. That these were his parents there was no doubt, but they looked much younger, happier, than he ever remembered them.

Absolon's face continued to look back at him, the mirror image of Erik at that age – had he not been horrifically scarred. And his father was visibly cheerful, the corners of his mouth upturned while a hand rested gently upon his wife's shoulder. His dark hair was combed back, away from his face, revealing a forehead not yet creased with worry and frustration.

Erik then turned his attention to Jacquelyne's image. His mother's hair, which he remembered as shot through with gray, did not appear so in the daguerreotype. It was fairer in color than her husband's was, though, and was pulled back and done up in the fashion of the day, giving her an older, more severe appearance. The camera, however, caught the sparkle in her eyes, a sparkle that still flashed back at Erik even after all these years. In her arms, his mother was holding a bundle. Erik realized that it was him that she was holding, beaming like the proud mother that she was, holding him up so that he faced the camera. Erik smiled to himself. _I must have moved_, he thought, noticing a slight blurring around his hands. The face, however, was not blurred and was clearly visible – and unmarred. If there had been even the slightest doubt remaining regarding his appearance and how he came to be disfigured, this was the final proof.

"She had fair red hair, you know," Phalene was saying. "It wasn't a dark, coppery red, but more like a reddish-gold. And if you saw her up close, you would see freckles sprinkled upon her cheeks and nose."

Christine stared in awe at the picture. "I still cannot get over the similarity."

The old woman chuckled. "I would have known you were Absolon's son even if I had not been told," she said to Erik. "Oh, and not because of the mask. You are the perfect image of him, even through the scars."

Erik carefully laid the picture down on the small table by his chair. "What can you tell me about my parents? I know what the letters say, but what can _you_ tell me?"

"My version may not be what is in those letters, but it is how I saw things. Even though your father forbad me from returning to the house in those months following your injury, I still made a point of stopping by from time to time, especially after you ran away. Your mother was in need of a friend, and I tried to help, for all the good it did. In time, an uneasy truce existed between your mother and your father. They were two people who once loved each other very much but were now caught in their own private worlds of pain and hurt.

"I did what I could, but Jacquelyne became more and more withdrawn, at times nearly obsessed with her memories of you." She nodded in Erik's direction. "There were many times when I would visit, and she would speak of you as if you were still living with them and had just stepped out. I feared that she was slowly losing her mind, and I often found her hiding away in your old room in the attic, imagining herself still caring for you. It wasn't that she was mad, you understand, but that she simply could not cope with all that was happening around her. Over and over, she would tell me that she felt she should have prevented what happened, berated herself for allowing you to be injured, for not taking better care of your father. In spite of all he did, she still loved your father, and it was tearing her apart inside to watch him slowly disintegrate. No, she was not insane. She was grief stricken.

"Absolon continued to seek solace from the bottle, but he no longer struck his wife. He could no longer work as a master mason, but he managed to find odd jobs around town, and was able to earn enough money for the two of them to get by on, but little more. Their debts continued to mount, and the day finally came when he informed your mother that they would have to sell the house and find something smaller, more economical." She pursed her lips in a frown as she recalled those days. "That must have been the final straw for her. Losing the house meant she had lost everything – her son, her husband's love, and now her home."

For several moments, no one spoke. Erik was the first one to break the silence. "How did my mother die?"

Phalene saw the pain in Erik's eyes, knew that he feared the worst. "It was an accident, a very sad accident." She closed her eyes and relived the events in her mind as she told the story…

-0-0-0-

_Phalene Guiscard was cleaning the kitchen when she heard the pounding at her door. _

"_Phalene! You must come quickly!"_

_She looked out the window and saw Absolon duBois at her door, panting out of breath, his appearance disheveled. She opened the door and glared at the man. "Why have you come to my house, Absolon? You have made it well known to me that you do not care for my presence."_

_Absolon swallowed hard, and blinked several times before speaking. When he finally found his voice, he said, "Please, it's not for me. It is for my wife. She's…she's hurt." He grabbed the midwife by the hand and practically dragged her from the kitchen. "She needs you."_

_Running to keep up with him, Phalene arrived at the duBois house. The two of them entered through the kitchen door, Absolon dashing ahead of her to the main room. Phalene followed right behind and froze in her tracks. There, on the floor at the foot of the steps, lay Jacquelyne duBois, a ragged gash at her temple. A pool of blood had gathered where she lay. Absolon knelt by her side and gently pushed his wife's hair from her face. He leaned over and cradled her in his arms, speaking to her. "Wake up, Jacquelyne. Please, wake up," he sobbed, over and over._

_Phalene knelt next to them and put her hand on Absolon's shoulder. "I fear she will never wake up."_

_And Absolon howled in pain. "No!! No, not my Jacquelyne!" He sobbed inconsolably, hugging his wife's body, rocking to and from, refusing to let go of her. He looked up at Phalene with his tear-stained face, "You must do something for her."_

"_I'm afraid there is nothing I can do," Phalene said softly. "Tell me what happened."_

_He drew in a ragged breath and explained as best he could, choking back sobs as he did so. "I…I came home with good news. I…I wanted to…to tell my wife that I had secured a new job. With the money from the job and what we could raise if we sold this house…we would have enough money to afford a smaller house. _

"_I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to make things up to her, to see if we could start over. She…she wasn't in the kitchen. I…I called out to her. She was up in the attic room. I started telling her that we needed to pack our belongings…When she came from the room, she looked pale as a ghost. I started telling her about the job, about…about starting over. I…I don't know what happened next. She was coming down the stairs…and the next thing I knew, she was laying on the floor as you see her now." _

"_You did not strike her?" Phalene asked._

_He shook his head. "No. I swear to God, I did not touch her!" He looked down at his wife. "Oh, God! What am I going to do now?" He began to cry anew. _

_It took some doing, but at last Phalene was able to get Absolon to calm down. At her instruction, he carried his wife to their room and laid her on the bed. "You sit with her, Absolon. Pray for her soul, while I get Fr. Mansart."_

_A short while later, she returned with the priest. He performed the last rights, and then Absolon and Phalene washed and prepared Jacquelyne's body for burial. _

-0-0-0-

Phalene Guiscard paused for a moment in the telling of her tale, and taking a handkerchief from her pocket, dabbed her eyes. Even after so many years, the memories of that day still saddened her. "From that day on, Absolon duBois was as one already dead."

Erik picked up the picture once again, trying to reconcile the tragic events with the happy couple that looked out on the world with joy and confidence. "Mme Guiscard, for many years I lived abroad and had no contact with my parents. When at last I returned to France, I had hoped to effect a reconciliation of sorts with them, but learned that they had both died. I was led to believe that my father was responsible for my mother's death."

"You mean, that he killed her?" The thought shocked the woman. "No. No, there was never any suspicion that foul play was involved or that your father was in any was responsible for your mother's death. I believed your father when he swore to me that he had not touched her. It was an unfortunate accident. A terrible, tragic mishap, nothing more."

"And what happened to him, to my father?"

"One day, several months after your mother's funeral, Absolon came to my house. He was pale and gaunt. I knew he had not been well, that he barely ate enough to stay alive those days. I made a point of making meals for him a couple of days a week and I would stay to see that he ate. At least on those days, I knew he had food in his belly. When I asked him what brought him to visit me, he explained that he had finally worked up the courage to go through his wife's belongings. That was when he found the packet of letters and other items she had put away, in the hope that someday you would come home.

"'If only I could go back and change things,' he moaned repeatedly. 'It's all my fault. I've lost my son and now my wife, and it's all my fault.' Then he handed me the letters. 'In case Erik ever comes home and I'm no longer around,' he said. 'She wanted him to have these. Go ahead and read them if you wish. I did. Then put them away. If my son ever returns, tell him…tell him that I am sorry.' Then he got up and left.

"I continued looking in on him, taking food to him. He was a broken man, and in my heart of hearts, I could no longer hate him. One day, I came to the house with a pot of soup and found him slumped in his chair at the kitchen table. He was dead."

Father Godenot had been listening to this story with increasing sadness. "There was no need for any of this to have happened. The diocese of Rouen, of which we are a part, operates numerous charitable institutions. Surely, one of them could have helped this family. If they had found it difficult to care for their son, they could have easily brought him to us to care for!"

"You don't understand, Father," Phalene said sadly. "It was pride. Absolon duBois was a very proud man, a man who sought perfection in all he did, in all he created. He could not allow the world to see that he could not take care of his family, that his son had become damaged. Under different circumstances, Absolon would have been a good man, but when he turned to the bottle, it only made matters worse. He gave into baser feelings, never stopping to think about how much he was hurting his wife and child, not until it was too late. In the end, though, I forgave him, not only because he suffered tremendously, but because he had finally taken responsibility for his many faults."

Erik took a deep breath, feeling a terrible sadness in his soul. "You are a good woman, Mme Guiscard, to be able to do so."

The old woman shrugged. "It is easy to be charitable to the dead. Besides, I reminded myself that he did not ask for these things to happen any more than did you or your mother. Regardless of what happened, though, his last thoughts were of you."

"How…how could you possibly know that?" asked Erik.

"Because he was holding this in his hand." She handed him a piece of paper she had held back when giving him the packet of letters from his mother.

Erik looked at the childish scrawl, remembering the night he wrote it.

_My name is Erik. I am ugly. My Mama and my Papa don't like me. Mama is sad all the time and Papa can not help it if he hits her._

Here, he had sketched three not-too-crudely drawn figures representing his family. Absolon appeared to be shouting and waving his hands in the air, while Jacquelyne was cowering. Erik had included himself as well, rendering himself as a little blob-like drawing in the corner of the sketch.

_Maybe Papa will stop being angry if he does not have to see me anymore. Maybe Mama will stop crying. So I am going away. I will hide and I will not let anyone see me._

_Signed,_

_Erik duBois_

Another drawing followed, showing his parents looking happy as they stood in front of a beautiful house. There was a large sunshine above, and in the windows of the house were boxes of flowers in full bloom. Once again, Erik included himself, but the image was very pale and barely noticeable, located far away from the house and his parents.

Erik gazed at the signature. He remembered taking great care in signing his name, having practiced writing it many times. As he looked at the letter, he saw that it was smudged, as though someone had run a thumb over it many times. Had it been his father, trying to feel the letters? Erik turned the paper over and saw the meticulous handwriting that he immediately recognized as his father's hand.

_June 1855_

_My dear Jacquelyne and my dear Erik,_

_I do not deserve your forgiveness, but I ask it of you anyway. Forgive me. You loved me once. I love you still. May God let us meet again one day._

_Absolon_

-0-0-0-

* * *

Teary enough for you?


	7. Making Peace with the Past

January 31, 2007

I think this is about two-thirds way through this story. I put you all through the emotional ringer the last couple of chapters, so think it is only right to end this chapter with something more pleasant. As always, thank you to everyone who is reading this story, and a very special thank you to those who have taken the time to review. Your comments are always very much appreciated, and believe me, they do help!

HDKingsbury

* * *

_Chapter 7  
Making Peace with the Past_

Erik said nothing for the longest time. Instead, he sat quietly in his chair, staring at this final letter, this plea for forgiveness from his father. He tried to imagine Absolon sitting alone at the kitchen table, knowing that his time was drawing near, haunted by the realization of what he had done with his life and how he had squandered all the goodness he had once possessed. Erik tried to do as his mother asked, tried to find the good memories she wrote of, but he could not. All he could remember of his father were the long periods of being ignored by the man, interspersed by episodes of shouting and punctuated with stinging blows. The idea of his father being this pathetic, broken-down creature as described by Mme Guiscard was going to take some getting used to. At last, he took in a deep breath. "Thank you…for everything, Madame," he said softly. "May I…" He indicated the letters, unsure if he should take them.

"But, of course," the old midwife replied. "They are yours, after all. I only hope that they provide you with some peace of mind."

He could think of nothing to say, feeling any words at this moment would sound trite, and so he chose instead to say nothing. Picking up the pages, he carefully refolded them and slid them back into their envelopes. Looking over at Christine, he asked, "Are you ready to go?"

She reached over and took his hand. "When ever you are."

The three of them – Erik, Christine and Father Godenot – prepared to take their leave. They thanked Mme Guiscard profusely for all she had done and for sharing her memories of those troubled times.

The old woman took Christine by the hand. "May I inquire as to when the baby is due?" she asked.

The question startled Christine, who had not been expecting it. She chuckled. "Not until February, but how could you tell? I didn't think it was that apparent."

Phalene Guiscard flashed a toothy grin. "I was a midwife for too many years not to be able to tell when a woman is in 'the family way'. You look healthy. I predict that you will have an easy delivery and your baby will be hale and hearty."

Christine leaned over to the midwife and in a mock whisper asked, "Do you have any way of telling if it will be a boy or a girl?"

Phalene wagged a finger. "I could make a guess and have a fifty-fifty chance of being correct."

"And what would your guess be?"

The midwife considered briefly, placing her hands on Christine's stomach, and then predicted, "A boy. I say it will be a boy."

Christine flashed an "I told you so" grin at Erik, who could not resist the urge to grin back at her.

As the three of them left the house, Erik turned to Christine. "I should like to visit the cemetery again."

Christine frowned. She was not sure this was a good idea. She looked at Erik and saw from that part of his face not covered by his mask how pale and drawn he was. "Are you sure? Would you rather not wait until tomorrow?"

He smiled sadly. "No, this is something I need to do today. That is, if you don't mind."

"No, I don't mind at all."

Erik slipped the letters and picture into his inside pocket, and the three of them returned to the churchyard. No one spoke much during the walk, and when they arrived at the cemetery, Father Godenot excused himself, knowing the two of them needed some time alone. "If you require anything, I shall be in the rectory," he told them.

The graves were easy to find this time, now that Erik knew what he was looking for. He went down on one knee and gazed at the overgrown headstones. With one hand, he traced his parents' names with his fingers, and then went about pulling up the tall grass that obscured the stones. He said nothing as he worked, his face devoid of emotion except for the occasional tear that trickled down his exposed cheek. Satisfied at last with his impromptu clean-up of the graves, he rose and turned to Christine.

"Tomorrow, I should like to go to the Roumare forest and find wood violets. I want to plant them here… on their graves. Will you come with me?"

Christine held her hand out to him. Erik accepted it, then pulled her closer, the length of his body pressed close to hers. She rested her head against his breast, and listened to the pounding of his heart. The two stood in silence for several minutes before making their way back to the rectory, and from there, back to Rouen.

-0-0-0-

It was not until late that Erik and Christine returned to their hotel room. The trip back had been subdued, with each lost in thought. Back in their suite, they had both changed into their dressing gowns. The sun was low on the horizon, and a lamp lit provided the chamber with a warm glow. Erik sat on one side of the room in silence, alternating his gaze between the letters in his hands and the windows that provided a vista of the city below. Christine picked up a book she had brought from home and found a comfortable chair on the other side. She decided it might be a good idea to do some quiet reading and allow her husband some time to himself. Even so, she could not stop her head from popping up from time to time, to check on him.

Gazing across at him, she noticed that he still had not removed his mask. She considered whether to comment on it and decided that he would remove it when he was ready. She returned to her book, and did not realize how much time had passed until she heard the clock chime eight times. A small growl from her stomach reminded her that neither of them had eaten anything since midmorning. The silence was getting to be oppressive, and Christine decided it was time to speak. "Husband, would you prefer to be left alone for now? I can go into the other room if you wish."

Erik blinked as if waking from a deep sleep. He looked over at Christine as saw the worried expression on her face, feeling bad for having upset her. He made a half-hearted attempt at a smile, but the sadness he felt inside remained in his eyes. "No, of course not." He wanted to say more, to reassure her, but the words would not come, so he shrugged his shoulders. One thing he knew, he did not want to be alone just now, did not want Christine to leave. She was his anchor in these troubled waters.

"Then why don't I order us some supper." She rang for room service, and a short time later, their food was brought to them. Although the meal was sumptuous, Erik's remained largely untouched. Christine watched as he stirred his tea absent-mindedly and stared at something only he could see.

"Erik?"

Lost in his thoughts, Erik did not acknowledge her. He frowned as he pondered the revelations in the letters that sat on the edge of the writing table across the room.

"Erik?" Christine repeated.

Realizing his wife was speaking to him, he forced a smile. "I'm sorry, Christine. What were you saying?"

"I was saying that I could not be prouder of you than I am right now."

He scoffed and looked away from her, staring at the empty fireplace.

Christine tried again. "Husband, listen to me. Most of us would not have survived the kind of childhood you had, but look! Look at what you've done. You've made something of yourself. You're educated…successful…charming…"

He smiled weakly.

She continued, "…attractive."

He winced.

"Yes, you are! You don't see it, do you? Perhaps you do not see the women glancing over their shoulders when we pass them on the streets, but I do."

He let out a little snort. "They say I inherited my good looks from my father," he said, attempting to inject some humor. Then darkness fell over his countenance and he added, "I wonder what else I inherited from him."

"Your beautiful eyes."

"My temper," he countered.

"Your dark hair, your fair complexion…"

"The…the violence of my youth."

"Your inclination towards architecture."

He looked at her, realizing she was not about to give an inch. "And from my mother?"

"Your love of music and of the written word."

"Her…melancholia."

"Your sensitivity."

He gave up with a half-hearted chuckle. "You are too good to me, Christine," he said, his eyes red-rimmed and glistening with unshed tears.

She rose from her chair, setting her book aside, and knelt beside him, resting her head in his lap. "I love you, Erik, with all my heart," she said, wrapping her arms around his waist.

Overcome with emotion, he rasped, "I…I would never…never hurt you, Christine." He stroked her hair as he spoke.

"I know," she replied softly.

"Or…our child."

"Of course you wouldn't. You are the kindest, gentlest man I know."

Erik sighed, calming as the wall of emotional pain around him started to crumble and fall away. "Christine?"

"Yes, my love?"

"I have a favor to ask of you."

"Anything, my love."

"Be careful on the stairs."

She laughed softly in spite of herself. "I will." Several seconds ticked away. "And…Erik?"

"Yes, my love?"

"I, too, have a favor to ask of you."

"Anything, my love."

She gazed up into his face. "Make love to me."

"Oh, Christine…" He pulled her to her feet, and lightly touched his lips to hers as he gathered her in his arms. His kiss deepened and he picked her up and carried her to their bed. She stretched to her full length when she felt the quilt underneath her, and Erik slid onto the bed, pulling open his robe as he lay down beside her.

All his attention was focused on her now, as she knew it would be. She pushed his robe off his shoulders, and rubbed her hands along his silken pajamas as he nibbled her ear. The edge of his mask caught in her hair as he kissed her neck, and he stopped moving as she untangled herself from it.

"It would be much more comfortable for both of us if you take that off," she said as gently as possible.

Erik hesitated for a moment, turning down the lamp beside the bed before taking off the mask, only to find Christine sitting up, reaching around him and turning the lamp back up. "I prefer to see you while you're making love to me," she said.

He hung his head and covered his scars with one hand. "I'm tired of this game, Christine," he said wearily.

"I'm not playing a game. I married a man, not a mask."

"All my life, I have only been able to function anywhere near normally when I am wearing the mask. Then…you came along and said it didn't matter."

"I believe my exact words were, 'You should know by now, I like the way you look.' Yours is the face of the man I love," she said, leaning on his back. She draped an arm over his shoulder, and stroked his chest slowly. He placed his hand over hers and she nestled against him. "If something were ever to happen to me…," she began.

"Don't say that."

She felt his body tense as he spoke, but she continued, "…to make me look exactly like you, would you stop loving me?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I could never stop loving you."

She pressed on. "Would you insist that I wear a mask?"

"Of course not! I would never condemn you to the kind of life that I have been forced to live."

"Then stop torturing yourself! Let me love you, Erik, for the man that you are, not for the…not for what you were told you were."

"The Devil's Child? The Living Corpse? The Angel of Death?"

"No! My Angel of Music. Don't ever say that to me again, Erik duBois! Never!" she replied angrily. She jumped off the bed, tightening her robe around her waist and she paced the floor. "I will _not_ allow you to denigrate yourself."

Erik rose to follow her, helpless to control his emotions as they began to veer out of control. He growled as he twisted the pillow in his hands. Unhappy memories poured into his consciousness, memories that had been locked away for decades. He was unaware of the hot tears coursing down his face as the feathers heaped about his feet from the ruined pillow.

"Erik," Christine called to him calmly. "Erik."

He looked at her with dim recognition, vaguely aware of what was happening. He sagged to his knees, his shoulders slouched in defeat as he placed his fists at his temples and wept. "I…I should have…done something," he cried, choking on his tears.

Christine sat beside him. "What could you have done, my love? You were only a child."

"Anything…s-something. R-run away sooner. Gone to Father Mansart and begged for asylum," he sobbed.

"You did what you always do, Erik. You did the very best you could under the circumstances given you."

He shook his head violently. "I…I should have died and spared them the grief of raising me!"

Her sharp breath caught his attention in a way that her words could not. She held her hand over her womb, and glared at him. "Surely, you don't mean that."

He flushed with guilt and anguish as he realized what he had said. "Christine…I'm…I'm sorry. It's…it's been…"

"It's been a long day, for both of us," she replied, leaning close and resting her forehead against his.

He pulled her to his chest, and she straddled his legs as he wrapped his long arms around her. She rested her perfect check against his damaged one, and let her tears mingle with his.

"I'm not worthy of you, Christine," he whispered so sadly that she thought her heart would break. "My face is the least of the reason. It is…I am…deeply flawed. I…I have made so many mistakes…"

"It won't work, Erik. I'm not going to let you get away from me so easily. I am keeping you, mistakes and all," she said as she brushed his hair with her fingers.

"Now I've made you cry," he said softly as he held her face in his hands and wiped away her tears.

She smiled at him, a smile that made him melt, and kissed him on the lips when she saw the light return to his eyes. "We should be ashamed of ourselves, sitting here on the floor, crying like babies when we have so much to be thankful for."

He looked at her fondly, and quoted, "And Sad said, 'O Messenger of God! What is the weeping and shedding of tears?' Muhammad replied, 'This is an expression of tenderness and compassion, which the Lord hath put into the hearts of His servants; the Lord doth not have compassion and commiserate with His servants, except such as are tender and full of feeling."

"What is that?"

"It is from the Koran, something Aref once taught me. He insisted that he saw in me a diamond in the rough, long before I believed in myself."

"You must tell me more about Aref one day," she said, clinging to him. "I cannot help but think that if your father had had someone like Aref to guide him, things would have been different."

The two of them sat quietly, entwined in each other's arms, allowing the tranquility of the moment to fill them both. Christine hummed softly as Erik rubbed her back and shoulders. He inhaled the fragrance of her hair, felt the warmth of her body as it pressed against his own. He closed his eyes and gently rocked her as he held her in his arms, wishing this moment could last forever. Time seemed to cease, and eventually he came to realize that Christine was no longer humming, that her shoulders were shaking softly. "Christine, are you… are you crying again?"

She looked into her face, her eyes sparkling with happiness as he realized she had not been crying, but laughing quietly to herself. "No, I just…" she started hesitantly, almost as if she were embarrassed.

"Yes, my love?"

"You are going to think me silly, but what do you suppose this position is called?"

He joined her in laughter. "You have become a wanton woman since you found that book."

She said nothing, but smiled impishly.

An idea struck him. "Exactly what was it that you were reading earlier this evening?"

"Oh…just something I brought from your library," she replied, biting her lower lip coyly.

Erik tried to choke back a laugh. "You mean you brought the _Kama Sutra _with you?"

Nestling her head into the crook of his neck, she whispered, "You know me too well. My secret is out at last."

"What were you going to do, practice your Sanskrit? As I recall, we only managed to discuss a few words."

"Yes, but when I have trouble with the words, the illustrations are a great help." A small giggle escaped from her lips. "You and your collection of books have turned me into a wanton. But why do you ask? Are you complaining?"

"Never," he answered huskily, brushing her lips with the back of his hand.

She gently bit his forefinger as he drew it across her mouth, and gazed deep into his eyes. All of his attention was focused on her now. "Good. We can discuss my choice of reading material tomorrow. For now, I want us to go to bed, and if we don't feel like sleeping…? Well then, I can think of many ways in which we can while away the hours."

Erik smiled. "So can I, my love. So can I."

-0-0-0-

Erik lay asleep when he heard the crying. He opened his eyes, yet knew all along this was only a dream. Once again, he followed the sound and found himself in the same room he had seen in so many other dreams before. Before him was the woman sitting before a cradle, sobbing. He looked into the cradle and saw that it was empty. He looked back at the woman, saw for the first time the reddish-gold hair. "Mother?"

Jacquelyne looked up at him with her tearstained face, but said nothing. Erik remained still, and as he looked at his mother, he saw something else, something he had never noticed before – a shadowy figure standing off in the corner. A closer look revealed a face he had seen earlier that day, the face in the picture Phalene Guiscard had given him, but unlike his picture, Absolon's face bore a haunted look.

"Mother…Father…it's…it's all right. I've read your letters, all of them, and I thank you. But you must not worry any longer. I…I'm grown up now, an adult. There were some…difficult times, but they are in the past. I have a small architectural practice and am married to a wonderful woman. We are expecting our first child…your grandchild. Mother, you need not cry for me anymore." He paused, then looked at Absolon. "Father…I…I forgive you, Father."

Absolon's shadowy form took a tentative stop forward, then stopped. He tilted his head in Erik's direction, as if to acknowledge his son's words, then looked to his wife.

"Mother, it is time to rest." Erik turned back to his father. "It is time for both of you to rest."

Jacquelyne smiled faintly and rose from her seat. She hesitated, then walked towards Erik. "Son?" she said plaintively.

Erik held out his arms, unable to resist the urge to hug his mother. He waited eagerly to embrace her, but the dream dissolved and he woke up.

There was no disorientation this time. Unlike the other times he had such dreams, there were no leftover feelings of anxiety. He did not know if it was a dream, a visitation…or something else. Whatever it was, he knew that somehow, he had taken the first step in accepting himself and his parents, of making peace with his past.

Next to him, he saw Christine sleeping peacefully by his side. _She looks like an angel_, he thought. _I shall never cease to be amazed that she loves me. Here I am, forty years old. Not so long ago, I would have considered them to have been wasted ears, but now? No, I cannot believe they were wasted years. They served a purpose, teaching me, preparing me, helping me to be a better man. If my life had been different, would I ever have met Christine?_

Reaching over, Erik brushed a tendril of blond hair from his wife's face. He leaned over and brushed a soft kiss on her face, gently cradling the back of her head in his hand. The thought of life without her was unbearable.

As he stared into her face, her eyes fluttered open. She smiled back at him. "Can't sleep?" she asked groggily.

"As a matter of fact, no, I could not. Are you angry with me for waking you?" He kissed her again, but this time it was no feather-light kiss, but a deep, hard, passionate kiss.

Fully awake, she laughed softly as she circled her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, returning his passionate kiss with one of her own. "Not at all. This is, after all, supposed to be our honeymoon, is it not, Husband?"

He rolled over and caught her in his arms. "My thoughts exactly, Wife."

-0-0-0-


	8. A Walk in the Woods

February 8, 2007

At last, another chapter. As always, my sincere thanks to all my readers. Once again, my good friend MadLizzy has lent her expertise and was of great help with this chapter. --HDK

* * *

**Chapter 8  
****A Walk in the Woods**

_The Next Morning_

Erik lay awake in bed, his eyes shut tight. He did not have to open them to know it was morning; the brightness of the room and the sounds from the streets below told him as much. In spite of the emotional turmoil that surrounded yesterday's revelations, he felt refreshed. A smile curled on his lips as he stretched languorously. He reached over to find Christine, only to discover that he was alone in bed. He opened his eyes and saw that she was already up and about.

He watched contentedly her as she crossed the room, her robed cinched at the waist, accentuating her figure. She was singing softly as she wheeled in a food cart over to the table and began setting out breakfast. Erik said nothing to disturb her, but laid back and took pleasure in the view. He was especially fond of the way she looked with her blond hair undone and hanging in soft curls to just below her shoulders.

"You're flat," he said at last.

She turned, an enticing pout on her luscious lips. "What did you say?"

"I said, you're flat," he repeated, the smile never leaving his face.

"Is that any way to greet your wife in the morning?" she said, chastising him in a teasing tone. "By telling her she's flat?" She placed her hands on her hips in mock indignation, and made a pretense of inspecting her figure, looking for signs of flatness.

"I meant your voice," he explained, laughing. "The rest of you is…," he eyed her up and down appreciatively, "…most definitely not flat. Curvaceous might be a better word."

"Flatterer."

"I've been called worse."

She laughed, unable to contain her humor. "Are you hungry? I've ordered breakfast. We have tea and hot cocoa, some delicious _viennoiseries_…"

"Mmm…I love sweets."

"Yes, so I've learned. We also have an assortment of croissants – _nature_ and _au beurre_ – several different jams and marmalade, and fruit."

Erik eyed the breakfast table, then Christine. "I am hungry for something else."

"Oh? And what might that be?"

"You." He pulled back the covers and patted the bed next to him. "Come here, my sweet. We will have breakfast…eventually."

She briefly considered pretending to be scandalized, to protest that the cocoa would be cold by the time their morning frolic was over, but she was unable to resist his suggestion. She slipped off her robe and slid into bed next to Erik. "I thought you would never ask."

He chuckled nefariously, reaching over to pull Christine closer, dragging her across the bed until she was nestled snuggly against him.

"Three times in less than twelve hours. Someone's feeling frisky," she murmured.

"You're keeping count?" he asked, surprised. He took a deep breath, inhaling the fragrance of her hair. She smelled of orange blossoms, and the image of her on their wedding day flashed through his mind. He sighed contentedly as he gazed into her blue eyes and tickled her ribs.

"My, but you're playful today," she laughed, encouraging him to continue.

He loved the sound of her laughter. The joyful lilt of it made his heart soar. He lowered the strap of her gown as he grazed her shoulder with kisses.

In that instant, Christine realized that Erik seemed years younger. A weight had been lifted from him, and he was finally free of the burden he had been unconsciously carrying. She shifted, turning herself toward him as he showered her with kisses. She placed his hand on her breast, asking him with unspoken words to show her his love.

He weighed her breast in his hand momentarily, considering how her body was changing now that she was carrying his child. The thought was exhilarating…and erotic.

"Mmm…," he murmured. "Warm, sweet, fragrant…We should have you for breakfast every morning," he added with a twinkle in his eye.

Christine touched his cheek with her hand, and felt him lean into it as he closed his eyes. He was never more appealing to her than he was at this moment. She ran her hand down his torso, realizing he was still naked from their last encounter. Slowly, she stroked his thigh with the backs of her fingernails and whispered seductively, "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day."

She pushed his shoulders, gently urging him into a reclining position. She pulled back the covers and gazed at him, starting with his dark hair. Brushing a lock of hair away from his eyes, she realized that there were no signs of any lingering self-consciousness about her husband.

_He trusts me completely,_ she thought. _More than that, he trusts himself, and he trusts our love for each other._

"Don't worry," she said aloud. "I am enjoying my honeymoon." She flung her nightgown aside and kissed his chest, progressing downward until she was caressing his inner thigh.

"Christine," he moaned, his body tensing with desire.

She lowered herself and he sat up, kissing her body. She pushed against his shoulders again, enjoying the control she had over him, and leaned back on the palms of her hands, imitating an illustration in Erik's infamous book.

"Ouch!" she said. "I'm not sure this one is for me. Not yet, at least." She held his hand for leverage as she climbed off him and leaned forward to kiss him.

He returned her kiss with equal hunger, groaning as fine beads of perspiration broke out on his brow, then rested his chin on the top of her head. "We do not have to…you know. I do not want you to be uncomfortable."

"Don't stop what you're doing. I like it," she purred. "I needed a change of position, that's all."

They joined, and he delighted in listening to the music of her sighs and moans as she gave into him completely. Sucking lightly on her neck, he touched her delicate throat with his teeth before turning her head so that he could kiss her deeply.

She shuddered, reaching behind them to pull him closer. It was not enough. She turned abruptly, raising her leg over his as she pulled him down on top of her. Her eyes shone bright with desire as she murmured his name. He cradled her in his arms and settled her against the pillows as he eased himself on top of her.

Slowly, he took the time to enjoy her every sigh and moan. He watched her intently, knowing that he alone would see her passion, would see her like this, and the thought that she gave herself to him threatened to overwhelm him.

"Oh…Erik," she whispered, "my love."

He covered her mouth with his, kissing her deeply as he pulled her hips against his own. He loved being able to elicit this response from her, to see her passion, to know she wanted him. He knew she was close, and he focused on her pleasure as she mewled and moved beneath him. Again, he touched her in the spot that was sure to send her over the edge, and she cried out his name. The sensation carried him with her. In a strangled voice, he uttered, "Mingle," as he spilled into her.

-0-0-0-

They held each other as they basked in the afterglow, caressing each other tenderly. "That was wonderful," Christine said quietly, kissing his cheek. Finally, after her heartbeat had slowed down, she asked, "What did you say a moment ago? I couldn't quite understand it."

He laughed softly as he rolled to his side. "A poem came to mind. _May this marriage be full of laughter, our every day, a day in paradise…I am out of words to describe how spirit mingles in this marriage._ It is something I heard a long time ago, in Persia."

"It's beautiful," she said, playing with the hair on his chest.

"It was not all bad, you know. Persia, I mean."

"I'm glad. And I am especially happy that you stayed away from those harem women. I want you all to myself."

"I am all yours," he said, hugging her tightly. "No harems, I promise."

Several minutes passed before Christine spoke again. "Erik?"

"Yes, love?"

"Do you think we can both fit into the bathtub here?"

He raised an eyebrow, considering the possibilities. "There is only one way to find out," he said as he slipped out of bed and padded softly across the room.

Christine leaned on her elbow as she watched him walk unabashedly into the bathroom, disappearing around the corner. Soon, she heard water running and the fragrance of orange blossoms filled the air. "Don't use all my new bath oil at once," she admonished. "A few drops is all it takes."

"Oops," he said quietly, hoping she did not hear him.

"I gather that means you will be taking me shopping later on, to replace it?"

"The sky is the limit. This is, after all, our honeymoon."

"Hmm, I like the sound of that," she called as she stretched and yawned.

He reappeared by her side, wearing only a towel for modesty, and kissed her hand as he pulled her to her feet. "Your bath, Madame, is drawn."

"Our bath," she said invitingly as she pulled off his towel.

-0-0-0-

Erik and Christine sat across from one another at the breakfast table. Erik drank his tea, while Christine sipped her cocoa, both nice and hot after Erik had rung for room service and requested fresh pots of both. Throughout the meal, Christine continued rubbing her bare foot up and down the length of Erik's calf.

"If you keep that up, we'll never finish breakfast," he cautioned her.

"Would that be such a shame? Never mind, I'll behave." She tucked the offending foot under her chair. "Now then, will you pass me another pastry?"

Erik watched, astounded, as Christine sat and ate with such relish. "I've been doing some reading on women and pregnancies," he said, then added, "so that I will better know what to expect and how I might help."

"I knew I made the right choice when I married you, Husband," she said between bites.

"I read that most women experience some form of morning sickness, at least in the early months, yet I do not seem to recall you having been sick even once."

Christine took another delicious mouthful before replying, "Mamma told me to expect the same thing, yet as you have so aptly observed, I have yet to have any morning sickness. Believe me, it's a great relief. The only thing I've noticed of late is that I tire more easily. Oh, and a slight increase around my waist. Other than that, I feel fine."

"You must inform me if you become tired during this trip," Erik admonished her. "I mean it; tell me at once so that I can take care of you, as a proper husband should."

"Even if I want to take a nap in the forest?"

"I'll bring an extra blanket along. If you wish to lie down in the forest, then you shall do so."

"And will you be lying with me?" she asked coquettishly.

Erik grinned mischievously. "How can I resist such an offer?"

-0-0-0-

"I still don't understand why we have to take the public diligence," Erik said grumpily as he helped Christine inside the vehicle. "We can afford to hire a private coach."

"Oh hush," she chided as she took her seat. "How are we to meet new people, to talk to the locals and learn about the best shops?"

Erik continued to fuss as he took his seat next to her. "Perhaps I don't want to meet new people." He set down the blanket and picnic basket he was carrying.

"Now you're pouting like a naughty little boy."

He flashed her a roguish grin. "Just wait until tonight. I'll show you a naughty boy."

As they made themselves comfortable for the eight-kilometer trip, Erik was pleased to see that other than Christine and him, the coach was empty. His relief was short-lived, however, as a moment later, a mother and her six-year-old son boarded the diligence and sat opposite them. The woman nodded her head in greeting and smiled shyly as she settled in with her son. The four of them sat in polite silence as the coach took off, but that silence was soon broken.

"Why do you wear a mask?" the little boy blurted out.

Erik winced, wishing there was a hole to crawl into, but he promised Christine that he would beard the lion in its den and ride the diligence. He cast a glance in his wife's direction, but saw there would be no help from her as she tried to hide her smile behind her hand. _Maybe if I ignore him, he'll go away_, Erik thought, and sat perfectly still as he stared down at his feet. Christine, however, took the completely opposite tack and decided to engage the lad in conversation. Erik could only roll his eyes in disbelief.

"Hello, young man," she said to the boy. To her husband, she said, "Look, Erik. Isn't he adorable? If we have a boy, I hope he's as cute as this one." She turned back to the boy. "And what is your name?"

"Andre," he replied, beaming from ear to ear.

"My name is Christine duBois."

"_Bon jour_, Mme duBois." Then Andre's attention returned to Erik. "What's your name?"

Erik did not answer at first.

"Someone's talking to you," Christine whispered to her husband, discreetly nudging him in the ribs with her elbow.

Erik cleared his throat. He looked at young Andre and realized the boy was not the least bit intimidated by him or the mask.

"Andre!" the boy's mother called out. "Get over here and sit down next to me. You must mind your manners." She looked over at Erik and Christine, shamefacedly. "My apologies Madame, Monsieur. I do not know what has gotten into him. He's usually so very shy." Andre hung his head down as he tried to look ashamed, and took his seat next to his mamma

Erik gazed across at the little boy, whose face was filled with innocence. He thought back on his own childhood, remembered how inquisitive he had been at Andre's age. "It's quite all right, Madame," he said, managing to crack a smile. "He's naturally curious."

"That is very kind of you, Monsieur," the mother replied.

Erik turned his attention back to Andre, and saw that the little boy was grinning back at him. Warming to the child, he said, "My name is Erik, and I keep my faced covered because…because I was injured once."

Andre's eyes widened in wonderment. "Were you in the war? Are you a hero?"

Erik actually laughed. "No, nothing like that. It was…an accident."

"Nonsense," said Christine, looping her arm through Erik's. "He is a hero. He is just too modest to admit it."

That broke the ice, and the remainder of the trip was filled with friendly chatter. Erik invited Andre to sit with him, while Christine joined his mother and discussed such important things as where to get the freshest produce, who sold the best cheeses, or where to find the lowest prices in faience. Before long, they found themselves in the middle of the Boscherville town square, where the diligence stopped to let the passengers off. After thanking mother and child for making their trip a pleasure, Erik and Christine headed towards to the rectory to pay another call on Father Godenot.

-0-0-0-

"It was good of Father Godenot to provide us with the horse and cart," Christine said, sitting on the wagon's seat next to Erik as they made their way to the Roumare Forest.

Erik put one arm around Christine while holding the reins in the other, allowing the horse to meander slowly along the road. "I for one am simply pleased to be out of that coach and alone in the forest with you." As they traveled an old dirt road in their borrowed transportation, Erik visibly relaxed. "I always loved this place. Here, there was no criticism, no condemnation." At last comfortable with talking about his childhood, Erik told Christine how he used to sneak out of the house. He told how, in the forest, he would watch the small forest creatures – squirrels, foxes, deer – and listen to the songbirds, identifying the various calls as the two of them headed deeper into the woods. "Sometimes, when I listen to the birds, I imagine their song on the grand staff."

The forest enchanted Christine. "It reminds me of when I was a little girl, and Father and I would wander the countryside."

They turned off the main road and followed a smaller, lesser-used path. Erik surprised himself at his ability to remember these paths he walked so many years ago, and eventually they came upon a hollowed-out tree trunk.

"This was my secret place," he announced proudly. "I used to hide within this when I thought I was being followed and didn't want to be found." He eyed the weathered bark affectionately. "I can't believe it's still here, after all this time."

"Look," Christine said, pointing to the ground. "Wood violets!"

-0-0-0-

Erik jumped down from the wagon and tethered the horse to a small tree trunk. Then he held out his arms to help Christine down. Spreading out a blanket on a fallen log, he suggested that Christine sit there while he dug up the violets.

"I'm not a china doll, Erik. I won't break."

"And I am not taking any chances." From the back of the wagon, he brought out a spade and a wicker basket, and began digging up the flowers. When the task was completed, he replaced the utensils and blanket, helped Christine back into her seat, and headed back to the cemetery.

There, the two of them resumed cleaning the graves, finishing the job by planting the violets around the headstones. Though Erik did the bulk of the work, Christine refused to sit back and merely watch. After he dug up and loosened the soil, Christine knelt down and did the actual planting. "As the seasons pass, the violets will spread until they cover the graves like a blanket of purple and lavender in the spring," she said, pleased with her work.

Erik agreed. "When we return to the rectory, I am going to talk to Father Godenot about having a wrought iron fence placed around the graves, and see if arrangements can be made to have one of the locals take care of them on a regular basis."

Their work completed, they washed up with water from a nearby pump. Erik once again spread out the blanket, this time for a picnic lunch. Before they had left Rouen, he had asked the concierge to order them a basket. Now, he was glad he had. Both he and Christine had worked up a healthy appetite.

"What did the hotel pack for us?" she asked.

He looked inside the basket. "Mmm…looks good," he said. Erik handed her plates and flatware, along with a couple of glasses, which she set out in front of them on the blanket. "We've got some delicious-looking crusty bread, some brie and gruyere cheeses, fruit, cakes, wine…"

Christine laughed as her stomach growled in a very loud and extremely unladylike fashion. "Don't talk, just serve!" she said, handing him her plate.

They ate, and talked, and remembered. Erik spoke of the few happy memories he had of his own childhood – listening to the bells of the spires of St. Georges, sneaking off to hear the organ play on Sunday mornings, scampering off to the forest – and Christine told of traveling with her father, singing as he played his enchanted violin. "It really wasn't magic, but I used to pretend it was."

There was no sadness now, only peace, sympathy and understanding.

-0-0-0-

**Author's Note:**

_Viennoiseries_ is a French word for sweet pastries. Croissants _nature_ are plain croissants, while croissants _au beurre_ are ones made with butter.

_Brie_ is a soft cow's milk cheese named after Brie, the French province in which it originated (roughly corresponding to the modern _département_ of Seine-et-Marne). It is pale in colour with a slight greyish tinge under crusty white mould; very soft and savoury with a hint of ammonia. The white mouldy rind is tasteless and edible. (Wikipedia)

_Gruyère_ a hard yellow cheese made from cow's milk, named after the town of Gruyères in Switzerland. (I visited Gruyere once, quite a few years ago.) Gruyère is sweet but slightly salty, with a flavor that varies widely with age. It is often described as creamy and nutty when young, becoming with age more assertive, earthy, and complex. When fully aged (five months to a year) it tends to have small holes and cracks which impart a slightly grainy mouthfeel. (Wikipedia)

-0-

The lines Erik quotes are from "This Marriage," a poem by Mawlawi Rumi, the 13th century Sufi mystic, poet and teacher.

_May these vows and this marriage be blessed.  
__May it be sweet milk,  
__This marriage, like wine and halvah.  
__May this marriage offer fruit and shade  
__Like the date palm.  
__May this marriage be full of laughter,  
__Our every day a day in paradise.  
__May this marriage be a sign of compassion,  
__A seal of happiness here and hereafter.  
__May this marriage have a fair face and a good name,  
__An omen as welcome  
__As the moon in a clear blue sky.  
__I am out of words to describe  
__How spirit mingles in this marriage.  
_


	9. The Greatest of These

February 18, 2007 -- I've made some minor but necessary editorial changes to this chapter. More like housekeeping items. So if you're reading this a second time and it seems a little different in places, that's because it is. --HDK

* * *

**The Gift  
****Chapter 9  
****The Greatest of These**

"Did you have something in mind for the rest of the afternoon?" Christine asked as they finished up their lunch. She busied herself by packing up what remained of the food and the dishes. That taken care of, she picked up the blanket, shook it out, and folded it neatly, setting it on the seat of the wagon. "This isn't the most comfortable of seats," she pronounced.

Erik came up behind her and placed his hands on her hips. "Ah, yes, not too much padding back here. I can see where you might want some extra cushioning. You could always sit on my lap…for comfort, you know."

She spun around and circled her arms around his neck. "Don't worry. It won't be too much longer before there will be plenty of flesh on this body." She allowed Erik to help her up onto the wagon, then watched as he packed the wicker basket and spade into the back of the wagon.

Taking his place next to her, he took hold of the reins and asked, "What do you think of taking a short ride through Boscherville?"

"Can we do that and still have time to go to the rectory? Father Godenot is expecting us to rejoin him this afternoon."

"Boscherville's not very big – little more than a village. It won't take that much time."

"Could it be that what you really want is to visit the house you grew up in?"

He gave her a bemused smile. "I admit I'm a little curious to see what it looks like after all these years." He did not add that, though he was unsure of what they would find, he had made up his mind to no longer hide from his past. Already he had seen how events experienced by a child looked different to an adult. What better way was there for him to exorcise any remaining demons than to return to where it had all started?

Their drive took them down the main street of Boscherville, past houses and businesses teeming with activity. The further they got from the center of town, the less the activity there was until, at last, they were the only ones on the road. Erik remembered his home as being far from the village, but in fact they drove only a short distance, and less than a kilometer from the edge of town they found the duBois house -- an ancient, abandoned, half-timber structure sitting off the main road.

"It's rather isolated," Christine remarked, gazing at the forlorn-looking building.

"This was by choice," Erik explained. "My father preferred his privacy. Remember the letters from my mother? Apparently my father saw himself as an outsider, not accepted by the locals."

"Yes, I remember. Something about his grandmother."

Erik nodded. "I didn't understand any of this when I was young. For years I believed it had to do with me, that he chose this place so others would not have to see me. I realize now that his reasons were much more complex than just hiding a disfigured child."

Christine shuddered involuntarily. "I'd hate to think that he chose to live out here so that others would not see how he treated his wife and child."

"I prefer to give him the benefit of the doubt."

Pulling the wagon up to the front of the house, Erik jumped down. He tethered the horse to a weathered hitching post, giving it a carrot he had slipped into his pocket for just such a purpose and patting him on the muzzle before looking at the building. It was obvious that the house had been empty for a long time. Forcing a smile, he turned to Christine and said, "At least we don't have to worry about troubling the current inhabitants." Then he added in an attempt at levity, "Unless, of course, you believe in ghosts." Extending his arms to her, he helped his wife down.

"Don't worry," she said, looping an arm through his. "I'll protect you." They strolled around the property, looking the house over before entering. "How sad and lonely it looks," she said, pointing out what had once been flowerbeds filled with brightly colored blossoms, but were now weed-choked patches.

Everywhere there was evidence of years of neglect. Some shutters were nailed shut, while others hung precariously, as if about to fall to the ground. Few of the windows had any panes of glass in them, and what glass that was left was cracked or broken. Both doors – front and back – were fastened shut with planks of wood, crisscrossed and fastened with nails. The nails, however, were loose, suggesting that they had been removed and replaced more than once. Deciding on using the front door, Erik easily detached the planks and set them aside before they stepped in. Crossing over the threshold, they saw footprints scattered across the floor.

"It looks as though some of the local children come here to play," Christine said.

Erik studied the foot sizes. "Children or young adults? I wonder if they think it's haunted," he mused.

"You're right; it is more likely that these are young men and women coming here for some...you know, privacy," she said with a suggestive grin.

"Yet you are still willing to enter this place? What if they're still inside?"

She gave his arm a squeeze. "I suspect they come more towards evening. Besides, with you at my side, how could any harm come to me?"

Hand in hand, they cautiously made their way through the foyer and into the house. Though it was a warm summer day, inside it felt cold. Christine rubbed her hands along her arms, trying to dispel the chill.

Erik noticed what she was doing. "Cold?"

"It's nothing," she said, cracking a little smile. "The house has been empty for so long, I'm not surprised it feels cool in here."

"It's the ghosts," he teased, removing his jacket and laying it across her shoulders "They like the cold."

He glanced about the main room, concerned that floorboards might have been weakened over time. "Stay here. I want to make a quick check; to be sure it's safe to walk around in here." Before Christine could object, Erik left the room, only to return a couple minutes later. He held his hand out to her, beckoning her to join him. "It looks structurally sound."

She followed his cue. "Spoken like a true architect."

-0-0-0-

Throughout the house, Christine, with her woman's eye for such things, looked for the personal touches that might have been added by Jacquelyne, while Erik looked for any reminders of his parents, anything that he would have recognized from when he lived here. In the kitchen was a wood stove. "That must be the one your father installed when your mother was carrying you," she said. Looking at the walls, she pointed out the once-bright stenciled designs painted on them. "Look at that grapevine design. What a lovely way to make the room more cheerful."

"I suppose you want me to stencil our kitchen now. I thought you liked the color Mamma selected."

She could not resist a laugh. "I thought perhaps we could do it – together."

He raised an eyebrow. "Just what I need – you finding more work for me."

"Oh, stop complaining," she scolded good-humoredly.

At that moment, Erik turned. He stopped and stared at the table and chairs standing in the middle of the room. "This is where my father died," he said softly, thinking of the final message from Absolon.

Christine saw the distress on his face and decided it was time they moved on. "Let's look at the other rooms."

-0-0-0-

Leaving the kitchen, they made their way to the stairway that led up to the attic. Stopping at the foot of the stairs, Erik knelt down. "This must be where my mother fell," he said, placing his hands on the floor as if by doing so he could feel her presence. Then he looked up. "That was my room up there."

"The attic? Is that where you slept?"

"No. It's where I lived." He started walking up the steps.

"Erik, are you sure you want to go up there?" Christine asked worriedly.

He turned to her and frowned slightly. "I've made it this far, I might as well go all the way. Would you prefer to wait down here?"

"Are you kidding? And stay down here with the ghosts?"

He laughed, and then tested the steps and the banister to ensure that they were sturdy enough to hold to both of them. "Wouldn't want you to turn an ankle," he said to her with a wink.

"If it will make you feel better, you may hold onto me," she said.

"Then, Madame, may I offer you my arm?" he whispered lightheartedly into her ear as he held her close.

"You may offer me more than that this evening," she replied.

-0-0-0-

Erik and Christine found the door to the attic unlocked. Inside, the room was very much as Erik remembered it. It was sparsely furnished, with a couple of plain wooden chairs, a simple cot, and several storage chests. Over in the far wall was the window he used to scamper through when he wanted to escape. Like the other windows, this one too was haphazardly boarded up.

They walked over to the chests, opening them. In the first one they found several piles of neatly folded clothes, most of them now moldering and moth-eaten. Upon closer examination, they realized that these were dresses that had once belonged to Jacquelyne. Erik remembered the letters, and his mother writing that she had taken over his room after he ran away. Putting the dresses aside, they opened another chest. Inside they found children's clothes.

"These must have been yours," Christine exclaimed, lifting them almost reverently. She held up a tiny jacket for Erik to see. "They're so tiny! Can you believe you were ever this small?" Underneath the small shirts and trousers, she found a porringer. "Look at this," she cried out, giddy as a child at Christmas. "We must keep this so that our baby can drink from it, too." Exploring further, she found something else at the bottom of the chest – a scrap of fabric. At first glance it looked like a remnant left over from a sewing project. As she lifted it, Christine saw that it was, in fact, a very small mask. By its size, she instinctively knew that this was the first mask Jacquelyne had made for her infant son.

"I...I had no idea she kept these things," Erik said in a low whisper.

They continued inspecting the contents of the room. Over in one of the interior walls was an empty fireplace, and off in a corner, Erik saw the cradle his father had made for him, the same cradle in which his mother had laid him when he was born. He stared at the child-sized bed, trying to imagine himself as an infant, trying to imagine his parents happy and proud. It was evident that the cradle had been built with love, something Erik would have found impossible to imagine had he not seen it with his own eyes.

"Do you suppose we could take it with us?" Christine asked, breaking into his thoughts.

"You…you want this old thing?" he asked incredulously, pointing to the cradle.

She leaned over and rubbed her fingers lovingly over the carefully wrought cherry wood. "With a little work, some cleaning and polishing, it will be beautiful once again. And it would please me very much to have something of yours in our house, something we could in time pass along to our children."

In spite of himself, Erik acquiesced with little prodding. Truth was, he had been thinking along similar lines. "Very well. When we return to the rectory, I'll ask Father Godenot if he can have someone come here and pick it up, and ship it back to Perros."

Shaking her head slowly, Christine tsked. "Leave it here? And risk it being further damaged? What if the young visitors return to the house? Remember the footprints? Couldn't we take the cradle down with us? The wagon is more than big enough to hold it. I'm sure the caretaker at the rectory would crate it up for us and get it to the train station. We could have it taken to Perros and delivered to Mamma. You know how much she'll enjoy seeing the cradle…" She bent over, testing the weight of the cradle as if she were going to pick it up.

"You are not to lift anything. That is what I am here for – to lift and carry and do your bidding."

Christine put on her most innocent face. "Yes, of course. That is what I meant to say."

A small chuckle escaped Erik's lips and he turned to look towards the window. Going over to the windowsill, he looked down to see if the old hiding place he used to use to keep his secret treasures was still there. Gently tugging at a piece of the sill, he pulled up the piece of wood, revealing a small recess. Amazingly, much of his old cache was where he had left it so many years ago – an owl feather he'd found while traipsing through the Roumare Forest, a lucky acorn, a wishing stone he'd picked up when exploring the banks of the Seine River, scraps of paper with rudimentary pieces of music written on them. The memories these items brought back caused the hairs on the back of his neck to rise, as if someone had entered the room with them, and he felt shiver go down his spine. "Did you write those?" he heard Christine ask over his shoulder. Almost trancelike, he handed the little songs to her.

"These are quite good," she remarked, carefully looking them over. "Especially when you consider how young you were when you wrote them. But how did you ever learn to write music at such an age?"

"My mother taught me. She was very musical. Later, when I would sneak out of the house, I often went to St. Georges. Father Mansart would sometimes let me play the organ."

"We must take these with us," she said. "Don't you agree?"

Erik said nothing. He closed his eyes. There was a time when the sight of these things would have brought back memories of cheap whiskey and harsh voices, but not any more. Opening his eyes, he looked down at his feet and saw a board lying on the floor. He picked it up; it was an old sign. "Absolon duBois and Son" could still be seen painted on the plaque. His hands trembled slightly as he looked intently at the sign.

"Erik? Are you all right?"

"I can't believe he kept this…after the way I shattered his dreams." He turned to Christine, getting his emotions under control. "I…I think it's time we left. We still have to see Father Godenot." He picked up his cache and handed them to Christine, who was still wearing his jacket, so she could put them in the jacket pocket. He took another look around the room.

"I suppose we can take these with chests with us," he said, trying to regain the easy feeling from earlier in the day. "When we're back in Perros, we can sort through them to see what we want to keep. And yes, we'll take this as well," he said, a sudden feeling of warmth coursing through his as he picked up the cradle.

As they left the house, they paused outside the door. Christine shivered slightly, not having realized she had been holding her breath. Now that they were outside, in the sunshine, she felt at peace.

Erik made two more trips back into the house, retrieving the clothing chests and other items they wanted to take with them, while Christine sat on a tree stump, basking in the sunlight. Now that she was warm again, she returned Erik's jacket to him when he finished loading the small furnishings into the back of the wagon.

During the ride back to the rectory, she put her arms around Erik as a pleasant drowsy feeling came over her. It had been a long, full day. "Did you feel it in there?" she asked timidly.

"I…I felt something. I'm not sure exactly what it was. It was…it was a mixture of emotions, probably my own jumbled feelings." He looked back at the cradle he had placed it in the back of the wagon, not quite ready to admit to having felt a sense of remorse when they were in the attic. "There was something else," he admitted at last. "It was a fragrance…like a room full of flowers. It was strong…almost overpowering."

Christine stared at Erik. "A fragrance? Would it have been the scent of wood violets?" she asked as he lifted her into the wagon. "I noticed it, too."

They rode along in silence for a while. Finally, Erik spoke. "The problem is, wood violets are not in bloom this time of the year."

"Maybe it was Jacquelyne, reaching out to us," Christine said, only half joking.

Silently he acknowledged what Christine was implying. "We should do something with that house," he suggested.

"It is a good house, Erik. It's lonely now, but a family would bring back the peace and love that once filled it."

He mulled over what she was saying. "I wonder… Maybe we should keep it. We could have it fixed up; perhaps arrange to let it out to someone in search of a place to live, maybe a family that needs help."

"That's a wonderful idea," she said, cozying up to Erik as they rode along. "When we call upon Father Godenot, we should discuss this with him. I'm sure he knows some good workers here in Boscherville who can renovate the place. He may also know a needy family."

The dark mood that had threatened to overtake him in the attic was gone. "It would make me…," he paused. "It would give me peace of mind," he said instead, "to know that the old house was being put to good use."

"I understand," Christine replied, and Erik knew that she truly did understand.

-0-0-0-

It was mid-afternoon by the time Erik and Christine arrived at the rectory. Seeking out the caretaker, Erik arranged for the cradle and other items to be forwarded to Perros.

"Shouldn't we let Mamma know about this?" Christine asked.

Erik agreed. "I'll send her a wire first thing tomorrow. I will also inform her that we won't be returning for at least another week." He grinned at her and added, "Or two."

Back at the rectory, they joined Father Godenot in the parlor, where they enjoyed a pleasant conversation. Erik told the priest about their visit to his old home.

"How fascinating!" the priest exclaimed. "I know the house of which you speak, but never identified as the duBois house. It has been uninhabited for years. Some of the young men like to pretend that it is haunted, so that they can 'protect' their young ladies when they take their sweethearts for walks in the woods."

Erik remembered the footprints they had seen in the house. "Then I would have to say that we were fortunate not to have stumbled upon some young couple trysting there. By the way, do you know who owns the property? If possible, I would like buy it and fix it up. Christine and I thought it would be good to see the house occupied once again. Maybe we can dispel all this talk of its being haunted."

In the short time Erik had been in Boscherville, Father Godenot had come to like the man and said as much to him. "It would please me very much to do what I can to help with this project."

"I would also like to have a wrought iron fence erected around my parents' graves, and arrange for their upkeep." Erik mentioned a sum of money that the Father felt was more than sufficient for the job.

As they spoke, the priest admitted that Erik's story and that of his parents had given him the inspiration for a sermon. "Out of respect for all concerned," Father Godenot said, "I would not use anyone's name, but would like your permission to speak of these long-ago events in the context of I Corinthians 13:1-13." He rose, and brought to Erik his study Bible. "Perhaps you would like to read the passage aloud?" he prompted.

Erik first read the passage to himself, then complied with the Father's request.

"_If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing." _

Erik paused, looking at Christine who was sitting across from him. He could see from the expression on her face that the line about surrendering one's body to be burned seemed especially significant to her as it was to him. He continued reading.

"_Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. _

"_Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled' where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears. _

"_When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. For now wee see through a glass, darkly; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. _

"_And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."_

The room was silent for several moments after Erik finished reading. He sat, quietly allowing the meaning of the words to sink in. _For now we see through a glass, darkly…_ Those words spoke volumes to him. Erik had always thought of himself as a rational, logical man, a person who had tried to ignore his own spirituality. But he could ignore it no longer. Love and marriage had changed him, had allowed him to experience so many emotional releases, breaking through the barriers he had erected around himself so that at last. At last, his ability to express love had also enabled him to understand and accept his own spirituality as well.

He thought of all those years he had lived in darkness, waiting for the light that was Christine to enter his life. In many ways, her coming to him had been like a fairy tale in which she had brought him to life with her voice and healed him with her kiss.

Over and over in his mind, Erik saw many parallels. He would not speak of these out loud just now, but maybe later, when they were alone, he would share them with Christine. He saw the putting away childish things as his putting the past behind him. Finally, he spoke out loud.

"I see what you mean, Father. These childish things mentioned here could easily be my own obsessions with my injuries and discovering the reason my parents treated me as they did. By putting these obsessions aside, I shall be able to let go of the past." He did not say that now he would be rid of his feelings of worthlessness, of his self-image of being damaged – both inside and out. He looked once more at the verses. _And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love._

Yes, that is what his mother had tried to give him, even when she believed it had been too late. That is what his father has pleaded for, before he died. Love.

"Then, do I have your permission?" Father Godenot asked.

Erik smiled. "Yes, Father. You have my permission."

-0-0-0-

That evening, when they were comfortably ensconced back in their hotel suite in Rouen, Erik and Christine considered the rest of their honeymoon. Lying in bed, they talked about their plans for the next day.

"Tomorrow, I will send that wire to Mamma," Erik said.

"That's an excellent idea. It would not do for her to worry unnecessarily about us."

Erik frowned for a moment. "Do you think she will be all right by herself for such a long time?" he asked. "After all, she's not young."

"Don't worry about Mamma. She's more than capable of taking care of herself. Besides, I doubt she's alone."

"What do you mean?"

"Simply that she had neighbors, and if I'm not mistaken, she's probably paying more than an occasional visit to Alan Kerjean. Perhaps you noticed how her eyes twinkle whenever his name is mentioned?"

"Mamma? And M. Kerjean? At their age?" Erik pretended to be shocked.

Christine snuggled closer, and told Erik, "The joys of physical intimacy that are shared between a husband and wife are truly a gift from God, a gift I shall always cherish."

"In that case, may I open my present now?"

-0-0-0-

**Author's Note: **A porringer is a shallow metal bowl, usually with a handle, from which children eat.


	10. Intermezzo

March 2, 2007

**Author's Note:** I would like to thank everyone for their patience in waiting for this chapter. As some of you already know, I recently had a bout with some back trouble (thanks to a foot of snow on Valentine's Day!) The discomfort was annoying, to say the least, and kept me from being able to sit at my computer and write.

For more than a week, the pain kept me from being able to enjoy much of anything. Once the problem was under control, it took even more time to get my mind back on writing. Finally, I felt well enough, and inspired enough, to jump back into the fray, thanks in large part to my good friend and super beta, ML. She also helped with a small section of this chapter. Many thanks, Lizzy! You're the greatest! And as always, any grammatical errors and typos are mine. All mine!

And now, on with the story. There will probably be one more chapter, so enjoy!

HDKingsbury

-0-0-0-

**The Gift  
Chapter 10  
Intermezzo**

"What would you like to do today?" Erik asked as he spread marmalade on his croissant.

The morning sun shone into the room through partially opened drapes. Erik and Christine were in their bedroom, sitting at the breakfast table. The previous night they had decided to stay in Rouen for several more days. After that, they would travel about Normandy like the sightseers that they were. Christine recognized that soon enough, as her pregnancy advanced, getting around would not be so easy, and she wanted the opportunity to enjoy some time alone with Erik before they returned to Perros.

"I'd like to stay here and have _you_ for breakfast," Christine answered enthusiastically. A low rumble of laughter was the response she got. Picking up a piece of fruit, she nibbled at it as she considered Erik's question. "Oh, very well. What about shopping?" she suggested. "You did promise me a shopping spree, remember? When you inadvertently used the whole bottle of my orange blossom scented bath oil."

Erik flashed a boyish grin. "But the results were worth the sacrifice, were they not?"

She put a finger to her lips as if giving the matter serious consideration. "Well…," she drawled out slowly, "I never said that they weren't, but I still want to go shopping and there are so many things I need. She then began itemizing her mental shopping list. "First, I should like to visit a few of the fabric shops. I promised Mme. Lebeque I'd look for new fabrics for her," she said, referring to the seamstress back in Perros. "Oh, and then I would like to purchase some lace, and after that, I thought I would visit a couple of the local faïencières. It would be nice to have new pottery and dinnerware to go with our new house."

She batted her eyelashes and smirked across the table at Erik, amused by his antics as he pretended to groan. With a dramatic roll of her eyes, she demonstrated feigned indifference to his reaction. "Then again, if you prefer to stay cooped up in our suite, I can easily go shopping by myself, Husband."

He replied with a smirk, relishing the easy banter that existed between them. "And how will you pay for your purchases, dearest Wife?"

"Why, simple! I shall have them send you the bill!"

"Ah, but your plan will never work," he said calmly as he refilled her cup of hot cocoa. Passing her cup back to her, he asked, "If I'm not there with you, who will carry your packages?"

Laughter broke out. "An excellent point, Husband. I think that I shall keep you after all."

-0-0-0-

Comfortably dressed for spending a summer day wandering the business district of Rouen, Erik reached for his wide-brimmed hat.

"What are you doing?" Christine asked.

Erik stopped, puzzled by her question. "I'm getting my hat."

"As warm as it promises to be, would you not be more comfortable without it?"

"Nonsense. A proper gentleman always wears a hat when he's outside."

"Perhaps," she conceded, "but not necessarily that kind."

A frown creased Erik's brow. He looked longingly at his hat, disliking the thought of forgoing the anonymity it would provide him. If he wore it with its brim pulled down to one side, people were less likely to notice his mask. "What's wrong with it? I thought you liked it on me."

"Well…I do, when we're strolling the streets of Paris in the middle of winter." She paused, trying to word her concerns politely. "I suppose it would be acceptable on a cool spring evening, but on a warm summer day? And besides, wouldn't a 'proper gentleman' wear his top hat with his frock coat?"

"Not necessarily," he scoffed lightly, not caring to admit the real reason he wanted to wear the hat. "Besides, it's the only one I brought with me."

Christine, too, understood the real reason behind his choice. "Very well," she acquiesced politely, but added a condition. "But while we're shopping, you must allow me to buy you a 'proper' hat." She stood in front of him, straightening his lapels, patting them quickly, as if she were literally smoothing his ruffled feathers. Then she added, "One fit for a proper gentleman."

Erik faked a grimace, but agreed. "As my lady commands," he said gallantly as he made a bow, offering her his arm. He had understood all along that Christine would have it her way, and he knew that was exactly the way he wished it to be.

-0-0-0-

As they walked down a crowded street, Christine wondered at Erik's sudden unusual behavior – he periodically would look over his shoulder when he thought Christine was not looking. This worried her.

"What is it? Is there trouble?" she finally asked.

"Wh-what? No, of course there's nothing wrong," Erik said, wondering what had brought this on.

"You keep looking back." An idea occurred to her, and she gasped. "Are…are we being followed? It isn't Raoul, is it?" She almost choked on the name as she felt herself begin to panic. "Oh no! What if…what if he didn't go to sea, but has been observing us from a distance?"

Erik took Christine by the hand, trying to calm her. "No, it's nothing like that at all. We're not being followed by anyone." His exposed cheek flushed with embarrassment as he tried to explain. "I…I was only trying to see if you were right," he said, almost mumbling.

"Right? About what?"

"You know. A few nights ago, when, uh…" he sputtered, feeling like an utter fool, "…when you said that…other women…" He could not bring himself to finish the sentence.

"Oh!" Christine said as she exhaled slowly. "I see."

At that moment, she turned her head to see two women walking in their direction, making what they thought were discreet glances in Erik's direction while they kept their mouths hidden behind gloved hands. From the expressions on their faces, it was obvious that they were neither frightened nor dismayed by what they saw. In fact, they looked positively curious in a very feminine and, Christine thought, predatory way. As the women walked past them, one of them dropped her handkerchief. Christine frowned, considering the incident an obvious attempt by the woman to make Erik's acquaintance.

Gentleman that he was, Erik picked up the bit of linen and lace, and called to the lady. "Pardon me, but I believe you dropped this." he said, offering the handkerchief tentatively.

"Oh, Monsieur, you are too kind," the young woman, who could not have been much older than twenty, replied demurely. She stared hungrily at Erik, but broke eye contact when she heard another woman clear her voice and looked to see Christine staring back at her.

"My _husband_ is _always _chivalrous," she replied in a proprietary tone. Christine further claimed ownership by grabbing Erik by the arm, and practically dragging him into the nearest store. "That will be enough of that," she scolded, keeping her voice to a whisper so as not to make a scene.

"Why are you upset? She dropped her handkerchief. I was simply trying to be helpful."

A derisive snort was Christine's response. "That ploy is as old as time itself." She saw the confusion on his face, and softened. "You really don't understand, do you? That little hussy was trying to find a way to introduce herself to you."

Erik said nothing for several moments, and then replied, "Imagine, all these years I merely assumed that women were careless. I…I had no idea what they were up to." Playfulness returned to him as he said, "It seems that all they ever wanted was to make my acquaintance."

"Yes, just consider, Erik," she responded lightheartedly. "You could have been married years ago, had you but known." Then, in a flash, her mood changed. Her eyes began to tear up, and she pulled her own handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at them as she sniffed.

Seeing his wife suddenly distraught disturbed him more than he cared to admit. "There, there, Christine…," he started to say to her.

"I…I only meant to point out…that you could have been…could have been enjoying the benefits of Holy Matrimony…for…for decades!" she sobbed, tears flooding down her face.

Erik pulled her close, held her, did his best to calm her. He apologized, although he had no idea what he was apologizing for. Nevertheless, it felt good to hold Christine in his arms. Once he got her to stop crying, he pointed down the street. "Look. There's a little park over there." He indicated a square of green at the end of the street. "There are benches. Shall we go over there and sit?"

Christine nodded, and forced a smile. Arm in arm, they walked the short distance to the park, and sat in the cool shade of the trees. This time, it was Christine who apologized.

"I'm sorry, Erik," she said softly. "I don't know what came over me. One moment, I was feeling fine. And the next?" She blinked back the tears that threatened to appear once again.

Putting his arm around her waist, Erik pulled her closer. Leaning over her, he placed a gentle kiss upon the crown of her head. There was no one else in the park with them, and frankly, even if there had been, Erik would not have cared. Christine's happiness and well-being were more important than worrying over public displays of affection.

"You're overcome, nothing more," he said, brushing his fingers lightly through her hair. "What with," he fumbled for the right word, "with your delicate condition."

This drew a small laugh from Christine as her mood lifted once again. "I did not realize you were such an expert on these things," she said, teasing.

"I may never have been married before, never have been a father, but I do read…and observe," he reassured her.

And they sat in the park, the two of them, enjoying the tenderness of the moment, the comfort of each other's arms.

-0-0-0-

While in Rouen, Erik felt a return of his creativity. He purchased a portfolio, a set of pastels, a variety of charcoals and several sizes of sketchpads. Through his sketches, he made a record of every place they visited, often including Christine in his drawings. When they returned to Perros, he planned on having the sketches bound together, a souvenir of their trip.

During one of their shopping forays, Christine made a point of visiting several textiles shops. "Look! Here's a shop that advertises silks and laces. Shall we go in? I can look for those fabrics I want for those new dresses." She all but dragged Erik into the shop. "Oh, these are beautiful," she said, pointing to a subtle rose damask brocade. "That would make a lovely christening dress for Mamma. And what do you think of this one, Erik?" she said excitedly as she spied a periwinkle blue watered silk and held out a swath of the cloth.

"Lovely, and it very nicely brings out the color in your eyes," he complimented her.

A little further down the row of bolts, she found an off-white patterned silk. "This would make an exquisite christening gown for the baby. And as long as we're here, we should get several nice fabrics to make you a few new suits. As a member in good standing of the community, you must dress the part."

"I always 'dress the part'," Erik grumbled, but accompanied her nonetheless.

While Erik tried to find ways to amuse himself in the fabric store, Christine and the clerk went over patterns for tea gowns, jacket and dinner bodices, split pannier overskirts, Hermione overskirts, fantail skirts, long draped overskirts, as well as petticoats, chemises, under drawers and corsets. They looked at bolts of silks and cottons, with Christine often asking Erik for his opinion.

"Why don't you just buy all the bolts and have them sent to Mme. Lebeque in Perros?" he suggested, not entirely in jest, referring to the seamstress who made Christine's wedding gown. "That way, she'll everything she needs whenever you want the dresses and skirts and whatnots made."

The clerk smiled indulgently, having dealt with many a bored husband in her shop. She turned to Christine, having recognized in Erik a man who would deny his wife nothing. "Perhaps Madame should consider Monsieur's offer. We would be happy to ship your purchases." Then she spoke directly to Erik. "And perhaps Monsieur would care to look at these very nice cloths; they would make excellent day coats and frock coats. Oh, and here is a lovely brocade for a new waistcoat."

In the end, Erik was sure that when they got home, they would find enough parcels and bolts of fabric for them to open a fabric shop of their own.

-0-0-0-

After a week in Rouen, their travels took them throughout Normandy. They cruised down the Seine to Honfleur, famous for its picturesque port, where they spend several days. Erik loved to visit _le Vieux Bassin,_ the old dock. He pointed out to Christine how, depending on the time of day, the position of the sun, whether there were clouds in the sky or it was clear, all affected the light and created different moods. Many artists had also discovered this phenomenon, and had come to Honfleur capture its beauty. These new surroundings brought Erik out of his shell a little more, and he took advantage of the opportunity to meet with several of the local artists.

From Honfleur they traveled southwest overland to Bayeux. The small town looked much as it must have in the days of William the Norman. While exploring Bayeux's old medieval streets, they came upon the cathedral and went in. Inside, Erik arranged for them to be shown the church's greatest treasure, the famous tapestry said to have been commissioned by Queen Matilda herself.

At last, they knew it was time they returned to Perros, and wired Mamma so that she would know when to expect them. The day their train pulled into the station, Mamma Valérius was there to greet them.

"So tell me, Erik," Mamma said, pulling her son-in-law off to the side. "Was your trip worthwhile? Did you learn what you set out to find?"

"Yes. Yes, the trip was worthwhile," he said. "For I learned that I have, right here in Perros, the most wonderful wife and the most wonderful mother a man could ask for."

-0-0-0-

Over the coming months, life was good for the soon-to-be-increasing duBois family.

Erik's small, one-man architectural firm was growing. _Just as Christine is 'growing'_, he mused pleasantly to himself. He looked down at his work desk at the designs for the several commissions he had received for new houses, as well as plans for several local public works projects.

In his spare time, he worked on the cradle they had brought from the old house. Not only was he refinishing it, but he was also adding decorative touches of his own in the form of carved panels on the headboard.

Whenever the weather permitted, Erik and Christine continued to take walks along the beach. As she increased, Erik was more and more solicitous of her comfort, questioning whether she should be out in such conditions. She outwardly scoffed at his concerns, but secretly relished being pampered.

"Smells like rain," Erik commented. He helped Christine with her cape as they left the house, heading out for a quiet stroll. With winter coming, he treasured every moment they could spend outside together. Soon, the cold weather would set in, and Erik knew that they would be unable to enjoy the sunshine and their leisurely walks along the pink sands of the seashore. Already the days were shorter, sunlight more precious.

"Rain will interfere with the harvest," Christine replied, looking concerned. She rested her hand atop her stomach, her brow knit in concentration.

"The farmers and field hands will be harvesting late into the night," Erik observed, understanding that any food destroyed by the coming storm could mean lean times for a family during the long winter months ahead.

"No one will suffer," Christine said patiently. "People look out for one another here, Erik. You know that."

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "You're right. It behooves me to remember the kindness of your friends and neighbors."

"Our friends and neighbors," she said, reassuringly.

"_Ours_," he repeated, smiling warmly. They held hands as they walked towards the sound of the ocean and they stepped lively to avoid the chill in the air.

The brisk fall breeze picked up leaves and scattered them along the path. A particularly strong gust of wind pushed Christine against Erik, and she closed her eyes and leaned her head against his shoulder.

"Oh!" she said sharply. She stared at Erik, her mouth open wide, and rested the palms of her hands on her belly. "Oh, my!"

Erik pulled her protectively against his chest. "What is it? Is there a problem?"

"I…I'm not sure," she said quietly. "I…I think it's our baby!"

Erik's eye opened wide. "Is something wrong?" He held his breath as she shook her head.

"It's…it's…oh, Erik!" She laughed, placing his hand underneath hers. "Feel this. I felt it move!" She squeezed his hand gently.

He looked at his hand, perplexed, and suddenly he gazed at her with complete understanding. His eyes were filled with love and devotion. "Our child," he whispered as he kissed her cheek. "I felt it kick."

"_Ours_," she said contentedly, as she kissed him back.

-0-0-0-

Christmas came, and Christine's pregnancy was becoming more pronounced. That year, among the presents under the tree sat the refurbished cradle. Setting inside were quilts and baby blankets Mamma had been working on since the day she had learned Christine was expecting. There were also little baby clothes, diapers, teething toys and other items made especially for the new member of the duBois family, who was expected to arrive in another two months.

-0-0-0-

It was February – late winter – but the weather had been mild of late, suggesting that there might be an early spring. Thus far, however, it was still rather drab outside with slate-gray clouds hanging overhead. In spite of the less than pleasant skies, Christine insisted upon walking with Erik outside, but their walks were not as long as they used to be.

During their walk, Erik and Christine discussed names for the baby. Both agreed that, for this first child at least, there would be no naming the child for a member of either family. Instead, this child would provide them with a fresh start. God willing, there would be more children in time whom could bear grandparent's names, but for the time being, they agreed upon Etienne for a boy because, as Christine said, "I like the name."

As they started back towards home, Christine clutched at her belly.

"Are you all right?" Erik asked, worried when he saw the small frown on her face.

She turned and smiled. "I'm quite all right. It's just that I think our child is trying to tell me something."

-0-0-0-


	11. The Birth

March 12, 2007

**Author's Note:** I want to extend a huge thank you to ML, who collaborated heavily with me on this chapter. As a matter of fact, she wrote much of the original draft. I've had a lot of things going on in my personal life as some of you already know – sister in hospital (but home now), me not feeling good, stuff like that – and when I asked Lizzy if she would like to help write the birth chapter, she accepted the challenge without the slightest hesitation.

When time permits, I hope to write a short epilogue to tie everything together with a nice bow. Thank you, all of you, who have been reading this story. Once my life settles down and I have a chance to do some background research, I hope to write a prequel to _Variations_. Of course, that may be several months down the road. In the meantime, please welcome Baby duBois into the world!

HDKingsbury

* * *

**The Gift  
****Chapter 11  
****The Birth**

Walking became more difficult for Christine the more her labor increased. As they neared the house, she gripped Erik's arm and leaned heavily against him. Her breath whistled through her clenched teeth as a particularly strong contraction ended.

"It's only a little further," Erik said encouragingly. "I'll carry you the rest of the way."

"Nonsense," she responded determinedly. "Dr. Bret said it's good for the baby if I walk."

Erik looked towards Mamma's house looming on the horizon. It seemed forever and a mile away, and he wondered if Christine could make it. She seemed small and weak as she leaned against him, her worried countenance belying her bold words.

Even thought the temperature had been mild when they left the house, a cold February wind coming off the sea brought a distinct chill to the air as it cut through Erik's greatcoat. Concerned more about his wife's comfort than his own, he pulled Christine's wrap around her and shielded her from the wintry gust. Untying his scarf, he removed it and tucked it around her neck, sealing in the warmth.

"Surely Bret didn't intend for you to be walking while you are…when you…with the baby…at a time like this!" Erik said, sweeping her into his arms.

"Put me down," Christine protested irritably. All the same, she put her arms around his neck and held on tight as Erik strode across the well-worn path that led from the beach, past the pink and gold granite boulders, to their house.

Mamma Valérius saw them coming across the hilltop, and met them at the door. Her steady gaze comforted Erik; she seemed confident and self-assured. He, on the other hand, knew that what held him together was the feeling of Christine in his arms.

"Mamma!" Christine said, reaching out to her adopted mother. "It's time! The baby is coming."

"Take her into the parlor," Mamma instructed Erik. "It's all set up. I had just this moment finished setting out fresh linens. _Ja, _I had a feeling today might be the day," she said cheerfully.

Erik nodded grimly, as if he were about to face the executioner instead of the birth of his first child, and followed Mamma's instructions. In accordance with the most current theories in healthy family planning, they had prepared for the baby to be born on the main floor of the house, apart from their usual bedrooms, turning the parlor into a temporary birthing room.

He laid Christine down on the birthing bed near the fireplace, and then he sat beside her and helped remove her coat. Then he took off her shoes and rubbed her feet while she recovered from the onset of her labor.

"Don't fuss over me," she said, brushing a stray lock of hair off his face. "Everything is as it should be," she said, smiling warmly at him. She laid his hand across her belly as another contraction began.

He stared into the distance as he felt her stomach harden with tight muscles. "Does it hurt much?" he asked, mentally berating himself for asking what was undoubtedly a stupid question.

"It's a little uncomfortable," Christine said at last. "Be a dear, sweet man and bring me my gown and robe."

"Of course," he said, reluctant to move away from her. He stood tall as an oak – an oak rooted to the floor.

Mamma Valérius entered the room and touched his shoulder gently. "When you return with her nightgown," she said, "you should go and fetch Dr. Bret."

"I don't want to leave her," Erik said quietly.

"Do as you are bidden, Husband," Christine said playfully, with a regal wave of her hand. "I'm not going anywhere."

He was torn between the desire to do his duty and the need to stay by Christine's side. He frowned and stared at his hand, still beneath hers.

"Erik, please get the doctor," she said more firmly. "You will be back long before the baby comes."

"She's right," Mamma added. "There is plenty of time. Hours and hours! This could go on for nearly a whole day. You never can tell with the first one."

Christine's cheerful demeanor clouded over at the thought of laboring for a whole day. "Erik," she said in her best stage whisper, "Go and get the doctor."

Suddenly sensing urgency, Erik sprang into action. He strode from the room and shot out the front door, leaving it wide open behind him. Mamma and Christine stared at each other in wide-eyed disbelief.

"Give him a moment," Mamma said, counting the seconds as they elapsed. "One. Two. Three…"

She barely had counted to three when Erik ran back into the house, banging his shoulder on the parlor doorjamb as he lurched into the room. "I'll be back before you know it!" he said breathlessly, kissing Christine goodbye. And once again, he was gone, as fast as he had come.

Mamma patted Christine on the arm. "I'll make you a cup of tea. A nice warm cup of chamomile tea with honey and lemon, just the way you like it."

"That would be lovely," Christine said, as she started to take off her walking dress.

-0-0-0-

Erik dashed all the way to Bret's house, running as if the Devil himself were chasing him. As he hurried, a dozen reasons churned through his mind as to why he should never have left Christine and Mamma alone during this, their most vulnerable time. He cursed and berated himself for his shortsightedness. In the end, he made up his mind that when this was all over, he would build a barn and buy a horse and buggy for the future…for next time…for his family.

He covered the distance to Bret's house in record time, and gave it his all when he saw the cheerful whitewashed cottage with smoke curling out the chimney. It had never occurred to him up until that moment that the doctor might have been away, perhaps making patient rounds. Erik thanked his lucky stars that the doctor was home when Christine went into labor. He pounded on the door, his chest heaving as he caught his breath from the long run.

The housekeeper, Aimee, answered the door with a curtsy. "Sir," she said formally. "Please come in."

"Bret!" Erik shouted. "Bret! Come quickly! It's Christine!"

"Ah," the doctor replied from the dining room. "A first-time father! I'd know that sound anywhere. The excitement. The panic. The stark, raving terror."

Erik was not in the mood for humor. "Hurry, man! It's Christine! She needs you."

"Relax, Erik," the kindly physician muttered as he set down his glass and rose to his feet. "All in due time. I'm coming. I wouldn't miss this for the world." He turned to the housekeeper. "Aimee, please send for my daughter and have her meet me at the duBois house. Tell her that Mamma Valérius' grandchild is on his way."

"The baby is on _her_ way," Erik whispered, more to himself than to anyone else, confident that Christine was going to have a girl.

The maid appeared with a glass of water and a whisky on a small silver tray, and offered it to Erik.

"Drink it, if you know what's good for you," Bret ordered him, pointing at the water. "We have a long day ahead of us. You'll need your strength."

Erik gulped down the water and set the glass roughly on the table. He pointed at the door impatiently. "Please, we must hurry." He prodded the doctor and looked around for the doctor's kit.

Fortunately, Aimee's husband had already hitched the gray draft horse to the buggy and walked it 'round to the steps. The horse impatiently pawed the ground and snorted, eager to be on its way. Bret smiled and pushed Erik towards the carriage. "He knows his job, old fellow," he said as he took the reins and settled into the driver's seat.

Erik pulled himself into the seat next to Bret. "You've…you've done this before?" he asked, immediately wishing he could retract the question.

"A few times," Bret said with a smirk. "Between my daughter and me, we've delivered two generations of Perrosians," he said proudly.

"Your daughter?"

"Her name is Manon. She would have made an excellent physician, but she decided to devote herself to midwifery after hearing about one of my teachers. Made quite an impression on her, he did. Ignaz Semmelweis was his name."

"I've read of him," Erik said excitedly. He sighed with relief. "He is a true hero."

"Right you are. I studied under him on the continent in my early days. He taught me everything I know about modern obstetrics. They call him 'the savior of mothers' in his homeland, you know."

"He used a chemical solution, did he not? A system that stopped an epidemic."

"It was simple, really," Bret said pragmatically. "Clean hands save lives."

"What happened to Semmelweis? I should think he would be famous, that his name would be a household word."

The light in Bret's eyes dimmed as he thought about his teacher's ignominious end. "He died at a private asylum in Vienna. Some say he was beaten by attendants and left to die in his own filth."

Erik clenched his fists as Bret continued his story, remembering his own horrifying experience and brush with death only a year earlier.

"It took Semmelweis a fortnight to die. I shudder to think how he must have suffered. Some of his enemies say that Semmelweis cut himself during a minor operation on a patient, and infected himself with the disease that killed him," he said, turning ruddy as his choler rose.

"Who were his enemies?" Erik asked gently. "How did he end up at an asylum?"

"No one knows," Bret spat. "Small-minded men who hope to discredit him, men who were filled with jealousy or stupidity, perhaps? Crass indifference? All I know is that he was a brilliant man who deserved far better than the world gave him."

Erik nodded sympathetically. They rode in silence until Mamma's house came into view. Erik cleared his throat and asked, "You'll be using his techniques, I take it? His prophylaxis of antisepsis?"

"Of course," Bret said resolutely. "Always. And so will my daughter. We insist upon it."

Erik breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, doctor," he said.

-0-0-0-

Erik tethered the horse to the hitching post and hurried Bret into the house. Mamma was knitting, and Christine was playing a lullaby on the piano when they heard Erik call to them.

"Before we greet your wife, both of us must wash our hands thoroughly," Bret said quickly, handing Erik a cake of carbolic soap. "It will help ensure a healthy delivery."

They went into the kitchen where a kettle full of warm water sat on the stove. Erik poured the water over Bret's hands as he cleansed them, and then, holding the kettle with a towel, Bret returned the favor. Finally, Bret gave Erik permission to go to Christine.

He held her hands and gazed wordlessly into her eyes, searching them for unspoken clues to her needs and wants. Christine grimaced and stared hard at her wedding ring, concentrating on it with fierce determination.

"Was that a contraction?" the doctor asked.

Christine nodded and breathed deeply once it was over.

"That is our signal, Erik," Mamma Valérius said, rising from her chair. "You come with me," she said to Erik. "I need your help in the kitchen."

"My help? Why?" He held out his hands and wiggled his fingers, indicating that he was all thumbs at a time like this.

"I need you to help boil water," she said, pulling him along behind her.

"Boil water? Whatever for?"

"I have no idea. When a baby is born, that's what fathers do, isn't that so, Dr. Bret?" she said, smiling.

"Absolutely," the doctor replied with a grin.

Mamma had promised Christine she would take care of Erik, and that was what she was doing. By distracting him from his worries, she hoped to keep him calm…for Christine's sake.

-0-0-0-

Erik stared at the clock, watching the pendulum swing back and forth, back and forth. He raised his eyebrows hopefully as it chimed the lateness of the hour.

Manon Bret had arrived hours earlier and thoroughly chastised Erik for leaving the horse hitched up to the buggy while her father attended Christine. She was a firebrand, and Erik was not sure he liked having her around Christine at such a time. He rubbed his chest where she had poked him with her finger, saying, "You have done enough already! I will take care of your wife, and you…. You will make yourself useful and take care of the horse!"

He paced the length of the hallway outside the parlor door, pausing to put his ear against it now and again when he thought he heard Christine call for him. Eventually, Mamma Valérius emerged and told him to go sit down. He looked at her forlornly.

"Oh, Erik! You mustn't worry. Christine is in good hands," she said soothingly.

"I know," he said, his voice showing the strain he was under. "I know she is in good hands. I…I want to be with her, that's all."

He looked at Mamma with such worry that she felt it in her heart. She realized that while the rest of them had been working, helping Christine, he had been alone, his imagination running away with him. He was wrung out, and it showed in the circles under his eyes, the pallor of his skin.

"You can see her for a little while," Mamma told him, relenting. "Come. Let's both go see her," she said, leading the way.

Christine was sitting up in the birthing bed, holding her knees. Erik could not believe the sound she made as another strong contraction subsided. It was more animal than human, and he took a step back, uncertain that he really wanted to be in there – in that room, at that time. "Christine," he whispered.

"Erik!" she cried, holding out her hand to him. "I need you." Perspiration streaked her face, and her hair hung limp and loose around her shoulders. She was red in the face from exertion, and she looked tired.

He sat behind her, holding her upright as he whispered to her. "You've never been more beautiful than you are at this moment," he said. "I'm so proud of you," he added, wondering if he sounded as insensible as he suspected. He was rambling, and he knew it. Manon mopped Christine's brow and handed the cool cloth to Erik, allowing him to take over this small comfort.

"Oh, no," Christine muttered, pulling the coverlet over her lap as a circle of wetness stained them. Manon peered underneath the blanket and pursed her lips.

"It is time for you to leave," she said, looking Erik in the eye. "Your wife has work to do."

Erik bit his lip and stared at Manon. "I'm staying with my wife," he said.

Christine moaned as another contraction started. It was the strongest one yet.

"She's bearing down," Bret said to Manon. "It's time."

"Erik," Mamma Valérius said. "Let's give Christine some privacy."

"I want to stay," Erik said, none too convincingly, as his wife panted and groaned.

"We'll be right outside the door," Mamma said. "There are some things a husband shouldn't see, if he knows what's good for him," she said, shooing him out the door.

"Christine," Erik said, hesitantly.

"Sing for me as you wait in the hallway, Erik. It will relax me," she said breathlessly. As the next hard contraction hit, Erik felt himself being pulled out of the room. Manon closed the door as Christine cried out. He leaned against it and closed his eyes tight, and began to sing loud enough for Christine to hear him on the other side.

-0-0-0-

"Good Lord," Manon said in awe. "I have never heard such a voice! It's…it's like hearing an angel sing."

"It is," Christine said proudly as she managed a weak smile. Listening to Erik gave her the strength she needed to deliver her baby. Allowing herself to be surrounded by Erik's deep, rich voice, she felt no more pain – only the need to accomplish the greatest achievement of her life and become the mother of his child.

"I've never heard that song," Bret commented, as he held a warm compress where it would help Christine the most.

"It's his," Christine panted. "His own music...He wrote it...For me…It's…oh!"

"Put your energy into pushing," Manon advised her. "You can tell me all about your husband's music later, after your baby has been born."

"He's almost here," Bret said, encouraging Christine to push again.

-0-0-0-

"_She_," Erik muttered on the other side of the door. He could hear every word they said, and he could not let this pass. "_She's_ almost here."

"_He," _Mamma said. "It will be a boy. You mark my words, Erik. Your wife is going to give you a son."

-0-0-0-

"How is Erik?" Christine looked at the midwife, catching her breath. "Is he all right?"

"I imagine he's barely able to stand. No doubt he's beating his head against the wall, vowing never to touch you again carnally, and promising to build a church in honor of St. Elisabeth, the patron saint of mothers, for your safe delivery from childbirth," Manon said drolly.

"In other words, a typical new father," Bret chuckled. "A basket case!"

"You don't understand. He's…I'm all he has…"

"He's very proud of you, Christine. He'll be fine, once this baby is born," Bret said.

"That isn't what I mean," Christine started to say.

"Anna is with him," Bret said. "He isn't alone."

Christine nodded, appreciative that Mamma had stayed with Erik.

"One or two more pushes, Christine," Manon said. "It's almost here."

-0-0-0-

Erik sagged against the doorjamb as unholy sounds emanated from the parlor. "That can't be my Angel of Music," he said disbelievingly. "Can it?"

He stared hard at Mamma Valérius, realizing that she looked worried too. "I…I have a secret to tell you, Erik," she admitted. "I've never attended a woman in childbirth before!"

"Mamma!" he said, shocked at her revelation. "I thought you had lots of experience with this…this sort of thing!"

"Oh, I've had my share of friends with babies," she burbled, "but it's different when it's your own child!" She dabbed her eyes, wiping away tears with her lace handkerchief.

"She's going to be fine," Erik promised, willing it to be so. Tentatively, he offered Anna his hand and guided her to the settee outside the parlor door. The two of them sat, but Anna did not let go of him. He stared at her hand until at last she realized that she was clasping so tightly that the tips of Erik's fingers were white. She chuckled, and at that moment, Erik and Christine's baby was born.

For Erik, the sound of the baby crying brought back memories of nights when he had listened outside tents in Persia as babies were born to the nomadic tribeswomen. He thought of how alone he had been back then, and of how he never expected to be hearing the sound of his own baby crying. He looked up and saw the parlor door open. Without being aware of his own footsteps, he walked into the room and did not stop until he was with Christine.

He looked down at her as lay there, exhausted yet radiant. She held their baby in her arms and beamed at Erik.

"Thank you," he said over and over again as he kissed the side of her head. He thanked Christine. He thanked Dr. Bret. He thanked Manon, and Anna, and God Almighty. He sat next to Christine and reached out with one finger to touch the baby, as if to convince himself that it was real.

"Etienne," Christine purred, "meet your father."

Erik looked up at Mamma, who smiled back at him. "I told you it was going to be a boy." He looked back down at his son. The baby grasped the finger that his father offered him, and Erik gazed in wide-eyed wonder as Etienne yawned.

"It must be hard work being born," Anna said, as she kissed both Erik and Christine and hugged them. "He needs his rest."

The clock chimed two a.m., as Dr. Bret entered notes about the birth into his medical journal. "Born February 14, 1882, 12:03 a.m.," he wrote. "Baby Boy duBois. Father, Erik duBois. Mother, Christine Daaé duBois. Perfect in every way."

Manon and Anna finished helping Christine into a freshly made bed and soon she was resting comfortably. Erik sat in the chair near the fireplace, rocking his newborn son, and singing softly as Christine drifted to sleep.

He was happy.

-0-0-0-

**Historical Note:**

**Ignaz Philipp Semmelweis** (July 1, 1818 - August 13, 1865), also **Ignac Semmelweis** (born _Semmelweis Ignác Fülöp_), was a Hungarian physician called the _"savior of mothers"_ who discovered, by 1847, that the incidence of puerperal fever could be drastically cut by use of hand washing standards in obstetrical clinics. Puerperal fever (or _childbed fever_) was common in mid-19th-century hospitals and often fatal, with mortality at 10-35. Semmelweis postulated the theory of washing with "chlorinated lime solutions" in 1847 as head of Vienna General Hospital's First Obstetrical Clinic, where doctor wards had 3 times the mortality of midwife wards. In 1851, Semmelweis moved to work in Hungary, which accepted the theory by 1857.

Despite his publications by 1861 of statistical/clinical trials where hand-washing reduced mortality below 1, Semmelweis' practise only earned widespread acceptance years after his death, when Louis Pasteur confirmed the germ theory. A nervous breakdown (or possibly Alzheimer's) landed him in an asylum, where Semmelweis died of injuries, at age 47.

Source: Wikipedia


	12. Epilogue Preview

**Unedited Preview**

It seems to be taking me forever to write this epilogue. Maybe it's because I don't want the story to end. (Although there are other reasons. Honestly!) Anyway, here's an unedited preview from the first part of the epilogue. There will probably be some changes by the time the finished product gets posted, but hopefully this will tide you all over until then. In the meantime, thank you for your patience. It is greatly appreciated.

HDKingsbury

* * *

**Unedited Preview of  
The Gift - Epilogue**

_  
One Month Later_

In the month that followed the birth of Etienne, or Tienne as his parents often called him, life slowly returned to normal in the duBois household, or at least as normal as life would be from this point forward – with a new baby in the family. Christine was pleased to find herself recovering quickly from having given birth for the first time and suffering from no unpleasant aftereffects. Tienne was, according to his doting _grandmére_, the most perfect, most contented baby she had ever known. And Erik? Erik was still in a state of euphoria now that his life-long dream had come true, the dream of being a _normal_ husband who was now a _normal_ father to beautiful child.

-0-0-0-

"Is there anything else you would like me to get while I'm in town?" asked the nurse.

Christine considered for a moment. "No, I can't think of anything but you might want to check with Mamma. She said something earlier about needing some seasoning for the roast she's preparing for supper."

The nurse, Gaëlle Boterreaux, was a local woman about 30 years old, had been hired temporarily to help Christine care for the baby while the latter was still recovering, and to assist the new mother with minor chores around the house. Wishing Christine a good afternoon and promising she would be back in plenty of time to help bathe the baby, Gaëlle gave a quick curtsy and headed downstairs and towards the kitchen, to check with Anna Valérius before heading to market.

Enjoying a brief respite of quiet, Christine stood in the master bedroom, holding little Etienne in her arms. Rocking him gently, she carried him over to the bed and laid him on the coverlet. She smiled at Etienne, and he blinked and smiled back. "Tienne has the prettiest blue eyes, doesn't he?" she cooed. He pursed his cupid's bow of a mouth as he stared up at his mother, fascinated by brightly patterned shawl she had draped around her shoulders, and a little grin formed on his lips as he tried to reach for a loose lock of his mother's hair. "Just like his mamma's eyes. But then, I've been told all babies are born with blue eyes. Did you know that?"

Etienne made a noise that sounded like a little chortle, and Christine would have sworn that from the expression on his face that he knew exactly what she was saying.

"Well now, we shall just have to wait and see if your eyes stay blue like your mamma's, or if you end up with hazel eyes like your papa."

Tienne blinked again and looked as if he were trying to clap his hands when she said that. Then he reached began to fret and mew, wordlessly entreating his mother to pick him up and hold him. That was all the encouragement Christine needed.

"We've got to be quiet," she whispered into his ear. "Your papa's trying to work. He's going to be a famous architect one day, and this project he's working on is the one that's going to do that for him. You want your papa to be famous, don't you?" Etienne made a burbling noise, that Christine took to be a yes.

Walking towards the rocking chair, she passed the cradle that sat to the side of the bed. She was still amazed at its size, wondering what Erik's father, Absolon, had had in mind when he built it. Not for the first time did she wonder if Absolon had been expecting triplets, and many times she and Erik had joked that they could easily fit several babies in that one cradle! Her eyes fell upon the embellishments Erik had added to the bed, admiring the intricate floral designs of wood violets he had carved into the headboard and along the side panels. Instead of tucking Etienne into the cradle for his nap, she reached for one of his, tucking the soft wool about him, nestled him in her arms as she sat in the rocking chair, and looked out the window. The position of the window provided her an unimpeded view of the path that led from the front door of the house to the gate. From here, she watched Mlle. Boterreaux stride down that path as she headed towards Perros.

"We're going to have to talk to your father about employing her full time," she said to herself. From the start, she had expected that in all likelihood Erik would be uncomfortable with a "stranger" in the house, even if it were only for a few hours each day. Surprisingly, he never once quibbled over the hiring of a nurse. Not once had he made any gesture – spoken or otherwise – indicating anything but acceptance of the woman's presence. In fact, it had been Erik who first broached the subject of hiring someone to help around the house in those first days after Etienne had been born. Both Mamma Valérius and Christine were taken by surprise when Erik told both that as the man of the house, he insisted that a nurse be hired.

"Christine needs to rest and recover from her ordeal," he explained in a no-nonsense tone of voice that brooked no opposition. "And Mamma, I know you will most assuredly want more time for the baby. There is no doubt whatsoever in my mind that we could use some extra help around the house."

Anna had scowled and asked, "Are you suggesting that I'm too old to run my own house?" pretending to be offended by her son-in-law's suggestion. Later, Mamma secretly told Christine that she had had her own chuckle at Erik's expense. One day shortly after the incident, she told Christine she had overheard Dr. Bret, who had come to check on his patients, tell Erik to behave himself and not to even dare to try to sleep with Christine until she was fully healed. And Erik responded, "I really don't need much…sleep." Christine scolded Mamma yet could not help but laugh as she imagined Mamma keeping watch at the bedroom door, shooing Erik away.


	13. Epilogue Complete

April 4, 2007

Thank you all for your patience in awaiting the end of this story. Unfortunately, it took me longer to write these last few chapters than I anticipated, thanks to some real-life issues that took precedence over my writing. But good things come to those who wait, and I hope you find this completed version of the epilogue well worth waiting for.

As always, a great big thank you to my friend and beta, Lizzy. She wrote a little "out take" about these characters of mine that I liked so well, I incorporated it into the epilogue. Thank you, Lizzy. Thank you, Readers. And thank you, Reviewers.

HDKingsbury

* * *

**The Gift  
Epilogue (Complete)**

_One Month Later_

In the weeks that followed the birth of Etienne duBois, or Tienne as his parents often called him, life was slowly returning to normalcy in the small household, or at least as normal as life would ever be from this point forward. Christine was pleased to find she was recovering quickly from having given birth for the first time, and was happy not to be suffering from any unpleasant aftereffects. Tienne was, according to his doting _grandmére,_ the most perfect, most contented baby she had ever known. And Erik? Erik was still in a state of euphoria now that his life-long dream had come true, the dream of being a normal husband who was now a normal father of a beautiful child.

-0-0-0-

"Is there anything else you would like me to get while I'm in town?" the nurse asked.

Christine considered for a moment. "No, I can't think of anything, but you might want to check with Mamma. She said something earlier about needing some seasoning for the roast she's preparing for supper."

The nurse, Gaëlle Boterreaux, was a local woman in her late twenties who had been hired temporarily to assist Christine in caring for the baby while the latter was recovering, and to assist the new mother with minor chores around the house. Wishing Christine a good day and promising to be back in plenty of time to help bathe the baby later this afternoon, Gaëlle gave a quick curtsy and headed downstairs to the kitchen, to talk to Anna Valérius before heading to market.

Enjoying a brief respite of quiet, Christine stood in the master bedroom, holding little Etienne in her arms. Rocking him gently, she carried him to the bed and laid him on the coverlet. She smiled at her son, and he blinked and smiled back at her.

"Tienne has the prettiest blue eyes, doesn't he?" she cooed.

He pursed his cupid's bow of a mouth as he stared intently at his mother, fascinated by the brightly patterned shawl draped around her shoulders. A little grin formed on his lips as he tried to reach for a loose lock of his mother's hair that hung down by his face.

"Just like his mamma's eyes, aren't they? But then, I've been told all babies are born with blue eyes. Did you know that, Tienne?"

Etienne made a noise that sounded like a little chortle, and Christine would have sworn that from the expression on his face, he knew exactly what she was saying.

"Well now, we shall just have to wait and see if your eyes stay blue like mine, or if you're going to end up with hazel eyes like your papa."

Tienne blinked again. With his tiny hands waving in front of him, it looked as though he was trying to clap. Then he began to fret and mew, wordlessly entreating his mother to pick him up and hold him. That was all the encouragement Christine needed.

"We've got to be quiet," she said softly. "Your papa's trying to work. He's going to be a famous architect one day, and this project he's working on is the one that will make his reputation. You want your papa to be famous, don't you?" Etienne made a burbling noise. "I'll take that as a yes," Christine said with a chuckle.

Still carrying Etienne, Christine walked over to the rocking chair, past the cradle they'd brought back from Boscherville. She was still amazed at its size, wondering what Absolon duBois had in mind when he built it all those years ago. Not for the first time did she wonder if Erik's father had been expecting triplets. Many times, the two of them had joked about easily fitting a houseful of babies into that one cradle. A wistful smile played across her face as her eyes fell upon the embellishments Erik had added to the bed, admiring the intricate floral designs of wood violets that he had carved into the headboard and along the side panels.

Instead of tucking Etienne into the cradle for his nap, however, she reached down for one of his blankets and tucked the soft woolen cover about him as she sat in the chair, her baby nestled snugly in her arms. From where she was sitting, she had an unimpeded view out the window of the flagstone path that led from the front door of the house to the gate that opened out onto the road. From here, Christine watched Mlle. Boterreaux stride down path as she left for Perros and the market.

"We're going to have to talk to your father about employing Gaëlle full time," she said to herself. She looked down at Etienne as he made a little burping noise. "What? You say you like her, too?"

From the start, Christine had expected Erik to be uncomfortable with a stranger in the house, even if only for a few hours each day. Surprisingly, however, he never once quibbled over the hiring of a nurse. Not once had he made any gesture, spoken or otherwise, indicating anything but acceptance of the woman's presence. In fact, it had been Erik who had first broached the subject of hiring someone to lend a hand around the house. Both Mamma Valérius and Christine were taken completely by surprise when Erik had announced that, as the man of the house, he insisted on a nurse being hired.

"Christine needs to rest and recover from her ordeal," he had explained in a no-nonsense voice that brooked no opposition. "And Mamma, I know that you will most assuredly prefer to spend as much of your time as possible with the baby." He then looked around the spacious new house and pronounced, "There is no doubt whatsoever in my mind that we could use some extra help around here."

Anna had forced a scowl on her face. "Are you suggesting that I'm too old to run my own house?" she demanded, pretending to be offended by her son-in-law's suggestion. Later, Mamma secretly told Christine that she had had her own chuckle at Erik's expense. One day shortly after Erik's announcement about hiring a nurse, Dr. Bret had stopped by to check on his two patients. Mamma said that she inadvertently overheard the doctor admonishing Erik to behave himself and to not even dare try sleeping with his wife until she was fully healed. When told that it could take up to a month, Erik shrugged, trying not to show that he was a little disheartened, and instead said simply, "I really don't need much…sleep."

"He looked so sad," Mamma had told her. "Like a little puppy dog who's lost his beloved mistress."

Christine had scolded Mamma for saying such things, yet she could not resist the urge to laugh as she imagined Mamma keeping guard at the bedroom door, shooing Erik away.

The only thing Christine regretted about having a nurse around the house was that Erik now wore his mask even in the house when she was around. Perhaps in time, she thought, her husband would feel comfortable enough to allow others to see his face uncovered, but she was not about to press the issue. He had come so far, had changed so much, over the past eighteen months, that she was confident it was simply a matter of time.

A little whimper from Etienne brought her mind back to the present. She looked down at him as he blew little bubbles.

"Did I tell you what you father did last night? He is such a dear, sweet man. He even helped change your diapers at night. Now, how many papas would do that?" She rocked the chair, leaning her head against its back as she recalled the previous night.

Erik had been placing a soiled diaper in the pail when she heard him mumble, "I should have threatened them with a room full of dirty diapers."

"Whatever are you talking about?" Christine had asked, puzzled.

Erik had wrinkled his nose and made a snorting sound as he carefully placed the diaper in the pail. "The management at the Garnier," he explained. "With such a threat as this" – he pointed to the diaper pail – "I'm sure they would have eagerly agreed to paying me a much higher salary than 20,000 francs a month."

Christine chucked Etienne under the chin and laughed. "Oh yes, we can see it now, can we not? The Phantom of the Nursery strikes again!"

-0-0-0-

Erik sat at his drafting table. In front of him were rough sketches for several projects he was working on, including several residential dwellings. Down the hall, he could hear Christine talking to the baby. As much as he wanted to spend every waking hour with Christine and Etienne, he knew he had work to do. Heaving a big sigh, he looked back at the blueprints, thankful that much of his work could be done out of the house.

He picked up a straight edge and prepared to add some details to the paper in front of him when he heard Christine singing some kind of children's rhyme. He stopped to listen, smiling in absolute pleasure. Looking back at his desk, Erik was tempted to chuck the floor plans for the new house he had been commissioned to design, but thought better of it. It was a very lucrative commission by a wealthy American couple from New York City who wanted to have a summer cottage (as they called it) in Brittany. Erik was sure this work would receive recognition from more than just the local Perrosians, and would send more commissions his way, which, in turn, would bring with them more income.

Erik gazed about the room, daydreaming. Off to the side of his desk was the mask he kept there, for those times when a neighbor or a client dropped by unexpectedly…or the nurse. He laughed to himself as he realized how easy it had become for him to forget he was not wearing it when in his own home, but dreaded the thought of the nurse catching a glimpse of his uncovered face. He was not quite ready for that. Not yet.

He looked at the calendar. Thursday, March 16, 1882. A chill went down his spine. A year ago, he would not have given a sou for his life. He remembered all too clearly the anger, the frustration and the pain of being caught off guard, and made a prisoner in a lunatic asylum, all at the whim of a certain Vicomte de Chagny, who had been obsessed with Christine. He frowned as he recalled those two weeks in a living hell, when he had all but given up on ever seeing his beloved again. But then, his expression softened as he remembered how Christine, through dogged determination and the aid of two wonderful friends, Anatole Garron and Reynard d'Aubert, was able to arrange his rescue.

He could not help but think of everything that had followed – the long weeks of painful recuperation, the bouts of depression, and finally, the slow realization that this small group of people had accepted him as a fellow human being, and as a friend. There had been frightening times as well, when de Chagny hired a thug by the name of Jean-Claude Fournier and his cohorts to hunt down Christine, kidnap her and destroy Erik, and any others who stood in their way. In the end, however, the small band prevailed over every adversity that had been thrown their way. In the end, Erik and Christine had been wed in the small church in Perros.

Shaking his head, Erik forced himself out of his reverie. Looking down at the blueprints, he realized that his mind was not on his work and decided it was no use pretending otherwise. Instead, he thought of his family. Etienne had celebrated his first month's birthday two days ago, a very special day in his young life. Once again, he heard Christine's voice. Shoving his chair away from the desk, he left the room, seeking the joy and love of his wife and infant son.

He stood for a moment outside the bedroom door as he listened to Christine hum. It was the "Lullaby of the Bells." Erik sighed as he recalled the first time he heard her sing that song, back when he was recovering from his ordeal and his sleep was often troubled. How lovely it was to hear her sing it again, only this time to their newborn son. Stepping inside the room, he saw Christine sitting in the rocking chair, her shawl modestly covering the fact that the bosom of her dress was unbuttoned as Etienne suckled greedily at his mother's breast.

Christine looked up at her husband, her face aglow. "I was wondering how long it would take for you to come and visit us now that the nurse is gone."

-0-0-0-

Over the past month, Christine had become the perfect mother and Erik the perfect father. Such perfect parents were they, that they very nearly forgot all about being a married couple.

Early one morning, while Etienne napped in his cradle, Erik and Christine began to dress as the sun shone bright through the windowpane. He watched as she pinned up her hair, noticing that her blue frock brought out the sparkle in her eyes. She turned to look at herself in the mirror and smiled when she caught Erik watching her in the reflection.

_She's rounder than before the pregnancy,_ he thought as he grinned back at her. _Fuller. More womanly. _He snapped his braces and pretended to look for his morning coat, all the while watching Christine. He crossed the room and stood behind her as she sat at her vanity table, and gently rested the tips of his fingers on her shoulders.

"Not now, Erik," she said, brushing him away. "Breakfast must be ready. Mamma is expecting us."

Undaunted, he ran the palms of his hands down her arms and leaned over her, whispering in her ear, "I only want to hold you; that's all. I promise."

"Erik, stop whining. Breakfast is waiting. Afterwards, _if_ the baby is resting, perhaps we shall take a quick walk together. On such a beautiful day as this, the baby would enjoy a stroll in the pram. On second thought, you could do that by yourself while I finish getting the nursery ready for him."

"Chris-TEEN! It's been a month since I held you," he said, spinning her around and bringing her into his arms. "I've missed holding you like this," he said, sighing contentedly as she rested her head on his shoulders.

"This does feel rather nice," she admitted, taking a quick glance at the sleeping baby.

"Yes, it does," he agreed, holding her closer.

"You know what would feel even better?" she asked, snuggling against him. "If I were to remove your braces, I'd be much more comfortable. The buttons are gouging me in the stomach."

"Well. We can't have that, now, can we?" he said, swallowing hard.

"No, we can't," she says, loosening his pants. She pursed her pretty little lips seductively. "You know what would make me even more comfortable? If I were to take off my dress, I wouldn't worry about wrinkling it."

"By all means," he whispered, mesmerized by her. "Can't have you worrying about wrinkles."

She pulled the dress over her head, and stood in front of him in only her undergarments. "Erik? You know what would make it ever so much better?" she asked coquettishly, slipping her hand inside his trousers. "If I knew you weren't wrinkling, too."

"I...I assure you, I am not wrinkling. In fact, quite the contrary."

A quiet knock at the door caught their attention. Erik dove under the covers, as Christine pulled on her robe.

"Yes, Mamma?" she said innocently, though the blush in her cheeks gave her away.

Mamma peered at her curiously. "Your breakfast is getting cold," she said simply.

"I think Erik may be coming down with something, Mamma," Christine lied. "I've…I've sent him back to bed."

"Perhaps I should check him," Mamma said, concerned, as she pushed the door open wider.

Erik pulled the covers over his head and turned on his side, away from the door.

"No, no! It wouldn't do if you were exposed to…whatever it is…that's ailing him, now, would it?" Christine sputtered, her face a delicate shade of rose.

Anna Valérius smelled a rat. "I see. Well, in that case," she said adamantly, "perhaps I should send for Dr. Bret. He can be here in no time at all to check on my favorite son-in-law."

"Mamma!" Christine said under her breath. "Must I spell it out for you?" She knit her eyebrows and stared hard at her adoptive mother.

"Oh!" Anna said, pretending to at last understand. "Why didn't you come out and say you'd like some time alone with your husband? It's only natural, you know. You _do_ know that, don't you?" She clucked like a wet hen. "Give Etienne to me."

Without another word, Christine scooped up the sleeping baby and kissed him on the forehead. She handed him over to his Grandmother with a huge grin. "Thank you, Mamma," she said, kissing Anna on the cheek.

"It's time we had a little time alone, too. Just the two of us," Anna said to her grandson, leaning down and kissing his rosebud lips. Christine looked on contentedly as her foster mother took the baby into the nursery, singing gently to him in Swedish as she sat in the rocking chair.

Turning around gaily, Christine looked suspiciously at the pile of blankets on the bed. "Husband?" she asked, poking the pile tentatively.

"That was mortifying," the pile of blankets moaned.

"I thought you only wanted to hold me," she said, pulling down the blankets.

"Holding leads to…kissing, and kissing leads to…other things," Erik pouted.

"Be that way, you old spoil sport. You tuck that blanket under your chin. See if I care," Christine teased. She looked around the room and gazed at the empty cradle. "You know," she said at last, "this is rather nice, having the room all to our selves. It's time Etienne moved into the nursery, don't you agree?"

Erik threw back the covers and sat up. "All the way across the hall? What if he needs us in the night? What if we don't hear him when he cries?"

"If you didn't have ears like a dog, I'd worry. Not even a squeak in the floorboards gets past you."

"That was before I was perpetually sleep deprived. Having a baby has taken off the edge."

"Really?" she said, trailing her fingers down his long torso.

"Um…yes," he said, choking as she encroached on dangerous territory.

"Know what else will take the edge off?" she said, lying alongside him.

"Christine! I only wanted to hold you!" he protested.

"I _am_ only holding you," she purred.

"Oh…Chris-_teen_," he murmured as she crawled on top of him.

"I've missed you," she said, as she trailed tiny kisses across his forehead.

"I've been right here all along," he said, pulling the pins out and letting down her hair.

"You know what I mean," she said, rocking against him.

"Are you sure you're…you want…to do…this?" Erik asked between kisses, hoping like the dickens her answer would be yes.

"Dr. Bret checked me yesterday. You know that," she said, kissing him harder, with more passion. "I'm fine."

"Still…" he said hesitantly.

"I'm not made of porcelain. I won't break." She pulled her chemise over her head and tossed it away with the rest of her frilly lingerie.

"Oh…Chris_-teen_," Erik muttered as he struggled with his clothes.

"Oh, Errrrik," she replied, as she freed him from his constraints. She looked puzzled.

"What?" he asked, pausing. He stroked her back as she gathered her thoughts.

"Is it my imagination, or are you wearing fewer clothes than you used to wear?"

"Um…it's spring. The weather is warmer," Erik prevaricated. He intensified his touch.

"It has nothing to do with the fact that it's easier to undress when you have less on, then?"

"Truthfully," he said, kissing her shoulder, "It has everything to do with accessibility."

"Should I be flattered or insulted?"

"If you must know," he said, ceasing his ministrations, "It….it was the baby. He...he spit up on me again," Erik explained, trying to word it delicately.

"Again?"

"I need to talk to the tailor about a few more shirts, that's all," he said, thinking of the ruined pile of new, hand-tailored lawn shirts in the laundry.

"Erik?" Christine said, as she took his hand in hers.

"Yes, my love?"

"Must we talk about the baby vomiting right now?"

"Certainly not," he said, smiling. "There are many far, far more pleasant ways to focus our attention."

She thought quietly a moment, before whispering, "Show me."

Erik's face lit up at the prospect. "As you wish," he said, turning her onto her side. He kissed her ribs, her belly, and lingered over her hips. Reaching behind her, he pressed the base of her spine ever so lightly with his middle finger, and raised his eyebrows as she shivered with a frisson of delight.

She felt like putty in his hands as her passion deepened. She rolled onto her stomach and he followed, kissing her neck and her back as he pressed against her. He reached across her and opened the drawer of the nightstand, taking out a small, dark vial.

"Essence of _ambre gris_," he said, as he poured the waxy liquid on his hands and rubbed them together to warm them before touching Christine. "Some say it is the most effective aphrodisiac known to man."

"Lovely fragrance," Christine whispered, as the aroma wafted around them. "Is this something else you learned about in your travels? Where does it come from?"

"It's whale vomit," Erik chuckled.

"You really know how to spark the mood, don't you? Enough vomitus talk for one day," she growled.

Erik chuckled in reply. He touched Christine wherever she wanted to be touched, avoiding the places that seemed sensitive and paused to kiss her whenever she started to speak. Since words had failed him, he let his hands talk for him, caressing her with his fingers, his palms, and then his lips.

When she was thoroughly relaxed, she took the vial from Erik and began to reciprocate, massaging the oil into his muscles. She adored the way he reveled in her touch, pushing himself against her hands as she touched him. He could not get close enough to her. She massaged him in his most private places, driving him to his limits.

They kissed deeply as she sat atop Erik, and he opened his eyes wide as she guided him to her. He was careful, attentive to her every comfort, and let her set the pace.

"Open your eyes, Christine," he said softly. "I need to see you, to be sure…"

"You feel wonderful," she said, quickening her pace as she met his gaze.

"That's it," he said, clasping her hips tightly as she began to let go.

"I…I…oh! Erik!" she cried, collapsing over him.

"Rest," he said simply, as he kissed her temple. He wrapped his arms around her and flexed the muscles that let her know he was still eager for her. She shifted her position, pulling him with her as they lay face-to-face on their sides.

"Christine, no," he said, when he felt her stirring again. "It isn't necessary."

"It is so," she said, moving rhythmically. She reached behind him and touched him the way he had touched her earlier, and smiled when he responded by quickening their pace.

In no time, she felt the tightness increasing in her own center. "Husband," she cried, as she felt herself shattering like petals in the wind.

He groaned as he came in wave after wave of pure pleasure. He felt boneless and weightless, as he lay beside his wife. She brushed the hair away from his face, and he kissed her lips tenderly as he told her that he loved her.

She reached for the vial of _ambre gris_ that was tangled in the sheets beside them. "Where did you get this?" she asked.

He blushed. "It's…it was in my medicine cabinet at the lake house."

"Why did you have it at the lake house, Erik?" she asked with a scowl, adding skeptically, "Medicinal _ambre gris_?"

"It was a gift," he said nervously. "I've had it for decades. You saw me open it yourself! I've never used it before." He looked at the door as though he might have to make a run for it.

Christine took note of his discomfort with a sense of satisfaction. "You dear, sweet, silly man!" she said finally, hugging him tightly. "I only wanted to know if you could get more of it."

He relaxed as she touched him again, in his most private places. "I'm sure it can be arranged, my love," he said, grinning boldly.

-0-0-0-

_Sunday, March 26, 1882_

Erik stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his cravat repeatedly as he readied himself for church. He had been attending church regularly these days, primarily to listen to Christine when she sang in the choir, but today was more special than most. Today was little Etienne's baptismal day.

_Look at yourself, Erik. Here you are, putting on your Sunday best. Who would ever have believed you would one day be doing this?_

"What are you scowling about?" Christine called out from across the room, wearing the dress made of the blue silk they had bought in Rouen. Erik admired how it looked on her, with its accents of handmade lace also purchased on their honeymoon. She strolled over to his side. "Why such a long face on this fine Sunday morning? This is a day of celebration, not someone's funeral."

Erik made a face, dissatisfied with how the cravat looked. "Easy for you to say," he mumbled under his breath as he put on his hairpiece and adjusted his mask. He wanted to look his absolute best. This was going to be one of the most important days of his life, ranking up there with his marriage to Christine, and the birth of their son.

Christine grinned and shook her head. "Erik, sometimes I think you grumble just for the sake of grumbling." Noticing the crooked cravat, she straightened it, finishing with a quick tug on his lapels and a peck on the cheek. "You look fine," she said reassuringly. To her, he always looked fine, when he dressed formally? Her heart skipped a beat as she looked at him, certain that she was falling in love with her husband all over again.

"Look at me," he said with a crooked grin on his face. "Here I am, a respectable member of the community, preparing to accompany my family to church, to see my firstborn child baptized. It's rather funny, don't you agree?"

"Why do you think this is funny," she said with a little scowl, concerned that Erik might be slipping into one of his dark moods.

She was relieved when he explained, "I didn't mean funny as in humorous. I meant funny, as in ironic. Don't fuss so," he said, placing his hands on her upper arms and pulling her in for a quick kiss. "I'm not being glum. On the contrary, I am extremely happy. Now, shouldn't we finish getting ready so we don't keep our guest waiting? Mlle. Boterreaux has Etienne ready in all his finery, and the two of them are down in the parlor with everyone else."

This was, indeed, a special day, not just because it was Etienne's christening day, but because it brought together a small but very loyal group of friends. There was Anatole Garron, principal baritone at the Garnier. He had come from Paris with his companion, Carlotta García Ramírez de Arroyo y Contreras, known more simply to the Parisian opera-going public as "La Carlotta." During the horrific events of the previous year, Anatole had been at Christine's side, like an older brother, brave and stout of heart.

Also present were retired detective Reynard d'Aubert and his wife Justine. It had been Reynard, with his insider's knowledge of the Sûreté, who had masterminded Erik's escape from the asylum. Thanks to Christine's gentle influences, Reynard had been reintroduced to his former love, Justine Sorelli, formerly known as La Sorelli, prima ballerina of the Paris Opera. The two of them had married shortly after Erik and Christine had, and had retired to the village of Louveciennes.

At the moment, they were waiting in the parlor with Mamma and the nurse, Mlle. Gaëlle Boterreaux, admiring the newest member of the duBois family as they waited for Erik, Christine. They would all be going to church in the new carriage Erik had bought shortly after Etienne's birth.

"But…shouldn't we ask Mamma to be the baby's godmother?" Erik had asked Christine when the subject first came up.

"No," she explained, remembering that Erik had little experience when it came to such church-related traditions. "A godparent is generally someone outside the family, someone who is about the same age as the parents and who vows to takes responsibility for the child's religious education. Sometimes a godparent agrees to aid in the raising of the child – should something happen to the parents."

With a better understanding of the purpose of godparents, Erik immediately came up with the idea of writing to their three closest friends to ask if they would sponsor their child at his baptism. The answer was an immediate and unanimous yes.

Satisfied at last with their attire, Erik and Christine joined the others in the parlor.

"Christine, will you look at what Gaëlle made for the baby?" Mamma exclaimed as they entered the room.

The nurse smiled and blushed. "It…it is nothing," she said softly as Mamma showed off the quilted cape Gaëlle had made to go with Etienne christening ensemble. "I wanted to make something special for the baby. I…I feel like a part of this family."

"Oh, but you are!" Christine said as she hugged Gaëlle. Taking Etienne from Mamma's arms, she called to her husband. "Look at him Erik," she said as she cradled him in her arms. "He's just like his father…cape and all."

Erik rolled his eyes and laughed. "I think it's time we left for church," was all he could think to say.

-0-0-0-

At the church of Notre Dame de la Clarté, in the village of Perros-Guirec, Carlotta, Mamma Valérius, Mamma's beau, Alan Kerjean, Gaëlle Boterreaux, Dr. Visant Bret and his daughter Manon were all sitting together in the front pews, closest to the altar, as the parents and godparents stepped up to the baptismal font. Etienne was wrapped in the _carré_, the cloth that was held over Erik and Christine's heads when they were married in the same church. It was part of the Breton tradition, as was the nice, big fireplace in the church over which the water was warmed before being placed in the font, so that it would not be icy cold and distress the infant.

Throughout the service, little Tienne stared quietly at the priest, fascinated by all the sights and sounds around him. His little eyes watched in wonder as the candles flickered on the altar, and gazed at the multi-colored light that shone in through the leaded glass windows. He was fascinated by the priest's vestments, the music that wafted down from the organ loft, and the faces looking down on him, especially those of his mother and father. As the priest carefully poured the tepid water over his little head, Tienne practically cooed, bringing a smile to the priest's face. The Father nodded back at Tienne, and then at the baby's parents, assured that this is a good sign.

-0-0-0-

Back at Mamma's house, the dinner table had been set out with a christening feast. Toasts were made to the proud new mother and father, and to the greatest gift of all – a new life.

However, as it turned out, those sitting at the table felt there was more than one "gift" with them this day.

Erik turned to Anna, and told here that she was as much a gift in his life as any of the others, that she had become the mother he always dreamed of having. He looked out over the table, at his new friends – Anatole, Reynard, Justine – and thanked them all for their friendship. Catching the way Anna was glancing across the room at Alan Kerjean, he thought to himself that if things were to go the way he and Christine suspected they might, there could also be a father figure down the road as well.

"But...," said Christine, "what if you, Erik, are the ultimate gift?"

This, of course flustered Erik. How can he possibly be considered a gift?

Anna smiled at him. "You say I am like the mother you always wished for. And I say that you are the son I always wished I had."

"You are the husband I have always wanted, always dreamed of having," added Christine. "I shudder to think what might have happened had we not met at the opera house."

Reynard and Justine held hands. "Justine and I would never have gotten back together, would never have married, if not for you," Reynard said, kissing his wife's hand for emphasis.

Anatole beamed at Carlotta, then turned to Erik, "You reminded me that there is always more beneath the surface."

Carlotta nodded in agreement. "If not for you, I might not have given Anatole a second chance."

"The citizens of Perros also think of you as a gift," added Alan Kerjean. "Not only are you their local hero for having saved Mamma and the others from Fournier and his thugs, but you brought a small boom to the local economy through the extra income from construction. They have seen what you've done with Anna's new house and the other projects you have been working on. They are eager to see what else this genius architect will design for their town."

Erik could think of nothing to say, humbled and overjoyed by turns at this praise. He discreetly wiped a tear from his eye as they raised their glasses in a toast, all agreeing that the world was a better place because Erik duBois was part of it.

-0-0-0-

The End


End file.
